


Economy of the Heart

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: hl_chronicles, Dark Quickening, Highlander Reboot Challenge 2012, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without Methos in MacLeod’s life, his dark quickening lasts three years. Coming back takes him past one who made that journey a long, long time ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story couldn't have existed in any form without Devo's help, reminders, beta'ing, cheerleading and handholding. 
> 
> Part two will be posted on Friday

Jones crept forward a couple more feet and then stopped in front of the massive lorry. He exhaled, louder than he would have if Methos hadn’t been sitting in the car with him, but Methos knew it wasn’t an invitation to start a conversation. 

Not that Methos wanted to speak. The truck had its turn signals on, indicating he'd rather go left, but with the three lanes of traffic all trying to merge into the far left one, they weren't going to go very far. 

The drivers in the far left lane kept inches from the bumper of the vehicle in front of them, and stared straight ahead so that no one trying to merge would catch their eye. The clock announced in a soft green light that it was only 4:30 in the afternoon, but it was the Friday ahead of a long weekend and everyone wanted to be anywhere but here.

Methos closed his eyes. He'd had to check his sword in the bags in the trunk, and was completely alone on the highway. The days of casually strolling around not getting one's head cut offed were long since gone. Methos hadn't felt the pressure on the inside of his skull since returning to Europe, and in Tahiti only once, and that was from some young boy out in the street. 

He tried focusing on just how skinny the boy had been in his dirty red shorts and remarkably clean pink flip-flops rather than on how sweaty Alexa's brow had been towards the end. She'd suffered so much, despite the amount of Demerol they were cramming in her system. Nothing worked to relieve the pain, and getting out of the bed beside her even to urinate at the end had been unbearable. She could have gone any second and if his traitorous bladder had betrayed him at the wrong time he would have…

He refused to think about killing himself. It would have solved nothing. His gods were long since gone and forgotten. And Alexa had been so very, very good. If he believed in anything he knew they would have ended up in very different places. That hurt, like a fist being ground into his sternum. It squeezed on his lungs, making each breath a victory he didn't want to win, and she'd only been gone two months. Two months, three days and eight hours, adjusting for time difference. 

He hated that he had to bury her deep down in the cold. She deserved better, but he couldn’t bare for her to be so far away and Paris was home, at least for the time being.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Jones said from the other side of the vehicle. Despite the heat blasting through the vents they both had their jackets done up. Jones wore a ridiculous purple obviously hand-knitted scarf made by someone whose love for Jones far outweighed his or her talents for knitting. The pain came again, deep, sharp, and hard. If he passed out in the car they might make him take a physical before returning to work and those results would have been awkward to say the least.

"Thank you," he said, instead of the snarl he wanted to let out. Jones was mortal, and couldn't understand. Or maybe because he spent every moment of every day feeling his body dying around him brought him perspective Methos didn't need or want. He fell back on social niceties when it hurt to say anything more. 

Jones opened his mouth again, probably to ask if she'd gone peacefully. Mortals were obsessed with the idea of suffering, as though they even really understood the meaning of that word. One blade stroke, two if you were unlucky, three or four if the one over you was completely incompetent and you were incapacitated somehow. He watched an immortal having his head cut off with a dull kitchen knife once. That was the only suffering he'd seen that came close to how she died.

"And how's--" Methos' mind went blank. Jones had an immortal. Two months, three days and six hours earlier the name would have come to him without even thinking of it. 

"Antoine," Jones provided.

"Antoine," Methos repeated. They'd known each other in the eighteenth century, in the Wild West. He never did master the American accent and always stuck out as though he had a speech impediment when he spoke. He'd been huge. Kind, but massive.

"Dead," Jones said. "He'd gone into hiding, so I had that for a couple weeks, but now he's a confirmed kill and I'm working the front desk. Picking you up today was the highlight of my week, and quite probably the month, though that's too early to call."

Antoine had loved the finer things: Egyptian cotton, Cuban cigars, claret that cost more a bottle than Adam Pierson made in a month. Being his watcher meant blending into his lap-of-luxury lifestyle. 

"I'm so sorry," Methos repeated, but couldn't compare Jones’ loss with Alexa. He just couldn't. Jones nodded, obviously not expecting him to. 

"Something will come up," Jones said, curtly. Methos had been a watcher for the past twenty years now. They hadn't worked together before, which was good for his cover. The thought hurt all over again. What he would have done for twenty years. 

Jones managed to merge in the last lane. The crash site was in view now. The front end of a BMW no longer existed and the engine block sat where the driver had been. The white leather seats would have shown every splatter of blood, but there hadn't been any. The white cube van's rear bumper had been torn off and the doors were wide open. Stereo equipment, he saw, and counterfeit to boot. It would have been quite the haul for the police if they bothered to run it. 

He rubbed his face. All he wanted to do was go back to his apartment, sleep until he was fully saturated with the act, and gather everything up that reminded him of her. He couldn't burn it, as much as he wanted to, but he' settle for putting it away. Maybe in a century or two the wound inside him wouldn't be so rough.

The path of debris went on for a hundred yards before they were finally through the accident. Broken glass lay across the road with bits of rubber, metal bits that were small but looked expensive. Two officers were still talking to the woman wrapped up in a blue blanket The air bags had deployed and were deflated like used condoms in the wreckage and she had the start of what was already going to be a massive pair of shining black eyes. The woman talking to her had her hand on her shoulder. He only caught a glimpse as they drove past, but everything was crystal clear.

One of the ambulances headed back to the city, but the sirens were off and they were obeying the speed limit. That was never a good sign. He hoped for the girl's sake that the one being taken away was a friend or a co-worker and not any kind of lover. He hoped for her sake that when this nightmare of a day was over she'd have someone to crawl into bed with at the end of it.

The city had grown around an old dairy that had been on the edge of Paris. The livestock had been grandfathered in the zoning laws, so actual cows milling about in the slushy frozen paddock. Years ago they would have just made do with the illusion of a working farm, but since Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod took the dark quickening three years ago and started watching them, every safe house took the most extreme precautions. Mortals had raided two of their enclaves, one in Lisbon, and the big one in Seacouver. They’d caught an attacker from each of the cities, but even under torture, they couldn’t pick MaLeod out of a line up. He’d used intermediaries for his intermediaries. 

All the lights were blazing in the farmhouse. That was unusual. The parking lot was unusually full, though it was no better maintained than the cow paddock. When the immortals started dying, dozens if not hundreds of watchers had no one to watch. Some of the immortals disappeared. Others were confirmed kills. In the past three years they'd had nine watchers on MacLeod. He mailed pieces of the first two back. After that, he just went radio silent.

Methos kept his head down and worked his butt off. First he had to create a paper trail for where he could have been twenty years ago -- Australia, he decided. Everything was electronic and he could slip records into history without actually being there to do it physically. He didn't know what he was going to do once he couldn't just put his name in among other birth records when a town hall or hospital burnt down. Better hacking skills, he imagined.

Then he had to Photoshop pictures of himself into frames. He had to change enough of his facial features so that he didn't look like himself. Smaller nose, less pronounced cheekbones, ears flatter to his skull. Enough so that any mere mortal looking at the photo could see the resemblance, but not enough to pick himself out of a line-up. It was easy enough to make himself look older. He certainly felt older, so he just went by that.

He was all set when he got back to discover the new lead. That should give him something to do with his hands for at least a decade. 

Jones' phone chirped like a bird that had just had the life squeezed from its ribcage. Methos startled. Against all the distracted driving regulations, Jones fished his phone out of his pocket and glanced down to the text. "They found him," he read and even though the road had opened up completely after they passed the accident, he almost swerved off it himself. "Son of a bitch, they found him. He's here, in Paris."

Methos' own phone buzzed in his pocket. Jones took both their lives in his hands by trying to hold the steering wheel with his knees while typing out a reply. "Is that what yours says?" Jones asked.

Methos glanced down at his screen. “He's losing it,” the text read.

He deleted it, cold chill running down his spine. MacLeod had killed three watchers already. "Yes."

*

Inside the farmhouse, the main floor was an open area where most of the field watchers’ desks were set up. The video of the MacLeod/Burns quickening ran on a loop. The grainy CCTV footage wasn't good enough for any legal purposes, but there was a way MacLeod walked once he'd taken the dark quickening that was unique to him. Sean's hair was so orange that in the black and white footage it looked brown. He hadn't fought back, not even when MacLeod's sword came out. They were in the middle of the street, visible from two different cash machine cameras and a red-light monitor. 

At the start of the dark quickening, three years earlier, he pierced Rich Ryan through the heart and then shot Joe as he was leaving the building. Joe had been the lucky number one; he'd lived though he was now paralyzed from the lower back down. The rest had had the souvenirs sliced off already dead bodies. Sometimes it was a quick kill, sometimes he really got in and enjoyed himself, but three other watchers had been hunted down and killed, the earliest one only hours on the job.

The quickening had shorted out both the cameras from the banks, but the red light camera had a lightning rod attached to it. Against an unarmed opponent the fight, if someone other than Methos wanted to call it that, barely lasted a minute. Sean's hands hadn't come up from where he held them low and unthreateningly.

"Lock down the airports, bus terminals, docks and even the sidewalks if you have to. That man is not leaving Paris. Do you understand me?" Geoff snapped. He was too young for the position he had, and still a little too green, but the sad fact was he was the senior most watcher among them, other than Methos himself. In fact, it had come down to the two of them when the final decision had to be made, and Methos had to burn down a storage locker in order to get out of it.

Close to two-dozen men and women, who had all been staring at MacLeod thrashing himself after the quickening all burst into a flurry of activity at that exact same moment. 

Everyone except Methos. They stared at each other, the only two still figures in an ocean of movement, and Geoff jerked his chin to his corner office that had once been a dining room. Methos worked in one of the small servants’ quarters in the back of the grand house. 

"Thanks for the ride," Methos said to Jones, who was already on the phone. Jones nodded, waving Methos away, so Methos followed Geoff into the office/dining room.

Geoff queued up the same video that was playing in the main area of the house. It started just after the last lightning bolt entered MacLeod's mouth and had him lurching about for several minutes. It had been so long since Methos had taken a head, but he still remembered how it felt, like an alcoholic remembers the burning taste of scotch or a gambler when he pushes the chips all in. He would have licked his lips if he was alone, but he wasn't. So he crossed his hands behind his back and squeezed his bony wrists. 

"What do you think he's doing?" Geoff asked.

"Why are you asking me?" Methos demanded.

"I checked your chart. You seem to know these things."

Methos went to object, but Geoff raised his hands. "No, you might not have ever given up the answer to your superiors, but people who you talk to frequently deliver massive breaks in our conundrums. So I ask you again, what do you think he's doing?"

"He's having a quickening?" Methos asked. 

Geoff waved the hand he'd brought up. "After that."

"Methos' journals talk a lot about taking heads. I've read it can be very intense. And Burns was an old immortal."

"Here," Geoff said, freezing the video. MacLeod was against the wall of a closed and boarded up laundromat. He had beaten his head against it enough to bleed, and he was about to do it again. "He's never done this before." 

"There's never been a documented dark quickening since Methos first started his journaling," Methos said. "At best all I can do if offer an educated guess."

"Well, go on then. Guess."

"It's either one of two things, or any one of a thousand. MacLeod could just be full. Maybe an immortal can just be too full from all the quickenings and it starts, I don't know, manifesting itself in other, self-harming ways. It's never been documented, like I said, but maybe MacLeod has finally overloaded his surge protector."

"Or?" Geoff demanded, obvious dislike crossing his forehead in lines. Methos hadn't been gone for more than a month, but already Geoff’s hairline was turning more into a widow's peak. 

"Or from what I read, Sean Burns was a brilliant man. He was kind, generous, and talented. Methos speaks very highly of him."

"Is all your information from journals you've been reading? I can have those books scanned in by office interns and make them searchable. You'll be even more redundant than you are now."

Anger flared up inside him. Hot, pure rage, the likes of which Methos hadn't allowed himself to feel in a very long time. Even when he and Amanda fought while Alexa fell deeper into her sickness, he'd remained deep in his core calm. "Are you threatening me?" Methos asked, quietly.

"Yes, Adam. Actually I am. Who are you going to go run to? Anyone you've called in favors to who could keep your pathetic old whale quest going on is now dead. No one is in your corner anymore. If I want you to go for coffee, you better ask me both what I want in it and how hot it should be. And if I tell you you're coming with me to pick up Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, the only question you should have for me is which company car should you be picking me up in."

Methos could take the silver sword letter opener off the desk and have it buried deep inside Geoff's eye in the blink of an eye. It would be over instantly. It wouldn't make Geoff suffer. He'd be out the window and half way to anywhere before the alarm was sounded. 

"I take it you're telling me we're going to pick up Duncan MacLeod," Methos said, pulling himself in. If Geoff really wanted Methos to get him some coffee it would be the last request he’d ever make.

"Drop your bags off at your desk and bring the grey Range Rover."

Methos stood perfectly still. The anger wasn’t a new feeling, but one he hadn't let himself feel in a really long time. "Is that all?" he asked, cutting off each word just a little too abruptly.

Geoff's mouth twitched. He looked directly into Methos' eyes. Methos knew he was going to tell him how he liked his coffee, but what he saw when their gazes met stopped that nonsense. He dropped his gaze. He grabbed the envelop opener. "No, that's all. The red Range Rover will be perfectly adequate as well.” 

Methos nodded, turned on his heel, and got out of the room without killing Geoff. That was a small victory in itself.

* * * *

When all was said and done, they caught MacLeod fairly simply. They had set their nets too far away. It took hours to close in on him, when really he was staggering down the road about half a mile from where he'd taken Sean's head. They filled him so full of lead that Methos could have used MacLeod's penis as a pencil. 

When his body was flat on the ground and not moving, Geoff took the envelope opener and used the palm of his hand to push it all the way into Macleod’s heart. "Nobody, and I mean nobody touches this until we get him back to the farmhouse and secured, got it?"

No one argued. Methos grabbed a leg when he was told to and helped heave MacLeod's dead body into the plastic rear cell. The plastic had been professionally installed, Methos saw. It was pressed into the panels of the back. That was a new thing, and it didn't make his stomach any more comfortable with the rest of him. "What are you going to do with him once he's back on the farm?" Methos asked.

"Charge him with the lives he's taken and have him executed, obviously," Geoff said. "Did you want to be dropped off at your apartment? We're going to need you back at the dairy farm at noon tomorrow.”

Methos stared down at the body in the back of the range rover. The morning was already starting to break through on the eastern edge of the sky, and the smell of fresh baked bread and percolated coffee filled the streets. MacLeod looked so peaceful. Mostly dead, that crease that had permanently formed between his eyebrow and the lines across his forehead were gone. He needed a shave and…Methos sniffed, a bath or seven. His hair was surprisingly well groomed considering how long he'd managed his insanity. He'd been beautiful once. 

Now he was broken toy, left out too long in the rain. "My apartment would be lovely," Methos said. He had a feeling tomorrow would be a long day and he would need every once of rest he could squeeze out.

*

When he woke four hours later, he was still exhausted even after his third cup of coffee, Methos still felt exhausted on the drive into the dairy. Of course Geoff made him wait. At least it was cold in the house. The weight of his sword and his nine-millimeter comforted him. He always felt cold now that he was back in the northern hemisphere. Waking up alone in the bed left him even colder. His hips and shoulders felt worn out in a way they couldn't possibly be, and his fourth cup of coffee wasn't helping the dragging feeling any.

The kitchen hadn't been renovated since the sixties. It had been turned into a de facto storage room, but the old aga stove was still there. So was the massive kitchen sink, deep enough that his back joined in with his hips and shoulders to hurt, remember bending over one.

"Good morning," Geoff announced, as though that was enough to make it so. Methos refused to glance down to his watch. He wasn't going to give the bastard the satisfaction that it was ten minutes to one. Geoff's life hung by a thread over his head, and he didn't even realize how much danger he was really in. Methos found the amount of care he had for the job, the hiding, the Adam persona…nothing mattered to him any more.

But it was these little things -- the cold bitter taste of coffee still in the back of his throat, the burn of annoyance down his nasal passages, the feeling of his heart beating in his rib cage that he could focus and hold on to. Each petty annoyance was one more thing to think about between here and Alexa's memories. 

Geoff was lucky Methos was allowing him to live each and every second they stood together in the abandoned kitchen. If he thought of it as an allowance, it was easier to endure. "Morning," he said, forcing himself to smile. 

"I hope you weren't waiting long," Geoff said, all but rubbing his hands together at the thought.

"Hum. Shall we?"

Geoff nodded. Methos expected the key to the door be cast iron, but Geoff pushed a board in the wainscoting and a panel popped open. He scanned a card from his wallet and his retina. Methos wondered if the preponderance of times the bad guys overrode the system by preserving the eye of the key holder would make it less of a design feature, but mortals loved their technology, even if it literally cost them a retina for a scan.

The musty smell of the four hundred year old dirt floors wasn't enough to cover the mustier aroma of a feral animal. "If I may ask, how secure are the bars?" Methos asked, before taking a step onto the platform.

"We overhauled this unit in 2009, specifically for MacLeod," Geoff said. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll go first."

"It would," Methos said, taking a step back. "Loads better."

Geoff sniffed as he stepped past him. 

From below them, the pacing stopped. Methos felt the pressure in his skull like he'd just dove down to the bottom of a deep well, but kept his face perfectly neutral as he came down the stairs. Staring off into the middle distance always gave the immortality away.

By the time he reached the bottom of the steps, Geoff and MacLeod were mid-eyefuck. MacLeod barely acknowledged Methos. Methos aimed to keep it that way for as long as he could.

"It's a pleasure to see you behind bars," Geoff said, raising his voice. The stone walls of the basement absorbed the excess noise. The light came from a single florescent fixture over the room, half cell, half not, and a yellow iridescent line over the dirt marked an generous arm length from the bars. The table against the wall was half moldering in the dirt. The gleam of the bars and security system at the base of the staircase, well out of reach and the laptop with the webcam's green light facing MacLeod were both ultramodern.

MacLeod sat cross-legged on the floor behind the bars. Beside the security box was a lock box filled with everything from cattle prods to Tasers to fully automatic AK-47's.  
]  
Those were for show. Below it, without even being locked away were four different swords, a single and a double-headed ax, a scythe, and a gleaming machete.

Inside the cell was a tree stump. It had been green cut when it had first been brought down, but now the rings had started to separate. It had the same look as the wood in the desk. Not exactly moldy, but it wasn't something Methos would want to have pressed against his cheek as his last sensory detail. Not that anything would. 

If they were going to kill MacLeod here and now, he couldn't be here. There was so much dark energy still swirling around inside MacLeod, Methos knew he shouldn't be within the half of the city. If he didn't get out, Adam Pierson was as good as dead.

MacLeod looked different than he did on the surveillance videos. Even in grainy definition of old-school analogue recordings, there had been a light that burned behind his eyes. Staring into it in low definition made Methos a little sick inside. In high definition, though, it was the light of madness. Methos had seen it before in all men who killed for the sheer joy of it. It had been millennia, but he still remembered the rush and heat of arterial spray. 

MacLeod noticed him staring at the stump. "Never seen a beheading before?"

"Only on video," Methos lied. This MacLeod still had rage inside him. He hid it behind controlled breathing but it still radiated off him. The shine behind his eyes was gone, though, and it left him empty. Not frightened or confused, just empty. 

"You're in for a real show," MacLeod said, speaking to Geoff. "So now what?"

"You can't kill him," Methos said.

"Oh, we can."

"No, you can't. Watch and record. We can't interfere. You know the rules."

"We're applying for special dispensation as we speak," Geoff said. As high as he was in the organization, he was only in charge of Western Europe. 

"We're not murderers," Methos said. "This is murder."

"It's an execution," Geoff snapped. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"It's not what I signed up for." Methos headed for the stairs.

"You stay where you are," Geoff ordered. "I want you to watch this."

MacLeod only watched them with partial interest. The MacLeod in the video wouldn't have stood idly by. He was as filled with charm as he was evil. They might as well have been discussing soybean futures or annual wind patterns off the Gobi desert. 

Whatever had happened with Sean Burns, the dark quickening was over. "If you can't see that MacLeod isn't that what he was, you don't have eyes." Methos took the stairs two at a time, first the wooden stairs up to the kitchen, and then up the white, bright stairs to the second floor within seconds. 

The second bedroom's door was as heavy and thick as the exterior door was. It didn't have a locking mechanism that required a card, but it had an old-fashioned iron key, of which he had the only copy. It had been his farm, after all, centuries before.

Madeleine, his office mate, looked up from her computer when he stormed in. "You have to not be here," he told her.

"What?" she asked. She was young, no more than twenty-five, but had two doctorate degrees in English and Russian histories. She was smart enough to look him in the eye and gather her things without asking any more questions. "I didn't see any of this," she said, and shut the door behind her. "Oh, I'm sorry," he heard her say, and then came the sound of books falling. 

"Out of my way," Geoff demanded.

"This is a sixteenth century manuscript," she said, her voice rising. “What are you doing?”

Methos shut the door and locked it. It would take a battering ram to get through it. He logged himself into the system and found the streaming video. Geoff must have had it queued up so that the final verdict would be played for MacLeod to hear. Finding it was one thing. Hacking into it was something completely different. 

Geoff pounded on the door. "What are you doing in there? You let me in this instant!"

He didn't have long. His computer had a backup power supply, so if they cut the power the computer would still run. As if on cue, the lights in the room cut off. So did the Internet, but here through the thick glass it was easy enough to use his phone as a modem. That took time. By the time he hacked his way into the meeting, the heads of the Watcher's Council were mid-vote.

"Don't do it," Methos protested. His video came in and out; 4G was about as much a myth as Methos was outside of the city center. "Please."

"Don't do what?" a woman asked. Miyako, he recognized her, from the Northwestern Asian countries. 

"The dark quickening is over. We don't get involved. We watch and record."

"Who are you?" the delegate from North America asked. Methos didn't recognize him, but the accent was unmistakable. He was bald, his dark skin reflecting the bluish light from the office he sat in half the world away.

"Adam Pierson, researcher," Adam said. "Forgive my intrusion, but you can't just murder Duncan MacLeod. It's not what we do. It's not what we're here for."

The videos of the five different council members dimmed, and then a sixth joined the party. It was Geoff. "Mr. Pierson does not speak on behalf of me or with any authority," he said. "You know how I voted. Render the decision and I'll deal with my researcher's insolence myself."

"We know who you are," Miyako said, speaking to Methos, not Geoff. "And although I speak for all of us when I say we admire your passion for our oath, we find it a little unsettling you would have so little faith in our ours. The Duncan MacLeod we have been observing all morning is free from his obvious affliction. We watch and record. We do not interfere. Duncan MacLeod must be released immediately."

"What?" Geoff's mouth was agape. So was Methos', but he saw how ridiculous it made Geoff look and quickly closed his. He hadn't expected that at all. Mortals usually talked a good game, but when the chips were down, they couldn't usually see past their own fragile mortality. "He'll kill us all!"

The North American cleared his throat. "That is the oath we took. Assign MacLeod a new watcher. Incapacitate him in some manner and then release him."

"You can't be serious," Geoff said. "None of you can be serious. Which of my people should I send out to the slaughter? He's killed three watchers. And injured nine."

"They allowed themselves to be caught. That is our decision. Good night." The man's connection was cut.

"Good day," Miyako said.

As each of the delegates said their goodbyes, the connection between Methos and Geoff got stronger and stronger. Soon, they were connected to the same router and it was just like Geoff was in the same room. "I'll pack up my desk," Methos said. "You don't have to fire me." He'd laid enough false tracks down he that could truly disappear. In another sixty or seventy years he might reenter the organization, but not until everyone who knew him as Adam Pierson weren't just collecting their pensions, but were in the ground.

"Don't bother," Geoff said.

"Are you…threatening me again?" Methos asked, voice steady. If Geoff allowed him to walk away, he'd allow the man the decency of the chance of dying of old age. If this was a challenge only one of them was walking away. Methos was done playing Mr. Nice Researcher.

"Yes," Geoff said. "You're MacLeod's new watcher. You probably won't last until your next pay cheque."

Huh, Methos thought. There was still all that anger inside MacLeod. Dark quickening or not, Methos could still end up a head short in the deal. But touching all that anger inside MacLeod had woken something inside of Methos. It would be like playing with fire. "I expect the field agent's pay scale," Methos said.

"Don't worry, we'll prorate it for your next of kin."

Methos nodded, knowing a man like Geoff wouldn't have done his homework. If he did die, they wouldn't find out who was his next of kin until after Methos was already dead.

Methos disconnected his phone as a modem and pulled up the last text he'd received. "Meet me at the bookstore," he texted to Joe. Then, after a moment's thought, added, "Bring beer."

* * * *

 

Methos waited until the last of the watchers pulled the van door shut. The noise from the struts were horrific as it bounced its way off the frozen field and signaled before pulling back onto the road.

So it was just the two of them. Geoff had wanted to attach the letter opener buried deep inside MacLeod's chest to a fifty meter rope, but that might have done more damage than necessary if it didn't pull its way clear of the ribs it was slid between. "They're not invulnerable," Methos had said. He'd seen an immortal after his heart was ripped out of his chest; it hadn't been pretty. The body had kept trying to revive over and over again. But without the heart, it couldn't completely regenerate. They'd watched until Kronos grew bored, and then rode on. 

That was a long time ago. Methos rubbed his face. If he were wrong about MacLeod, he didn't think he'd fare much better.

He had a clean stack of clothes beside him. MacLeod would need them. His clothes were stiff with dried blood from all the bullet wounds.

He crouched down next to the body. Dead, MacLeod was at rest. They'd shot him again, stabbed him through the heart, and dumped him here, in the middle a field in December.

MacLeod had been long dead enough that the peaceful look on his face had turned waxy, like he was a very zen mannequin planted in the middle of a frozen field with the noise from the freeway whining in the background. Alexa hadn’t. She died in pain and looked as though she’d died in pain. 

He’d refused to sign off the paperwork necessary to get her embalmed. He could have loved her for an eternity. Holding back the death mask for a few more hours wasn’t worth the indignities to her corpse he knew it would take. He texted Joe after, in case she had any family who needed to be flown out for the service, another mortal event that kept the body out of the ground for just a little while longer, but she had no one. 

Methos pulled out the letter opener. It was hard; the meat around it wasn’t giving up the dull blade, but he got it out. He wiped the blood off on MacLeod’s shirt and then pocketed it. 

The colour returned first, grey, to white, to the yellow of unripe peach, and then to MacLeod’s proper flesh-tone. MacLeod’s heart pumped so hard Methos heard it. He jerked, shoulders and feet coming off the ground, and then inhaled with a gasp.

The awareness was so strong the pressure behind his sinuses was like a punch to the face. MacLeod was so strong, and so conflicted. If Sean Burns was in there, tipping things over to the scale of good, it was balanced on a knife blade. 

MacLeod looked around, eyes not completely focusing yet. “I’m Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod,” he announced, squinting his eyes. His gaze locked into where Methos crouched, but stared over Methos’ shoulder.

“It’s been a while since you’ve said that,” Methos said.

“What?” MacLeod demanded. “Who are you? Is this a challenge? I demand that you stay in focus.”

Methos sat back. This might take a while. “Which one of those do you want answered first?”

MacLeod’s hand jerked as though someone had just pulled a string. It smacked himself in the face, but then he had the gross motor control to pinch the bridge of his nose. He tried sitting up, failed, and rested his head back on the hard ground. “The challenge.”

“No, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, this is not a challenge. No, don’t rub your eyes. Your hands are filthy and you’ll just scratch the cornea worse. Your vision will come back.”

MacLeod, surprisingly, stopped rubbing his eyes with his fists. Dark MacLeod would have blinded himself gleefully. “Who are you?”

“Adam Pierson,” Methos said. “Your watcher.”

“I don’t have to see to know you’re no watcher,” MacLeod said, keeping his eyes closed. “Even I can see that.”

“And yet here I am. It’s complicated, but none-the-less, here I am, watching you. I’d appreciate you not killing me, too.”

“Oh, God,” MacLeod said. His mouth twitched. “How many did I kill?”

“Watchers, immortals, or innocent bystanders?” Methos asked. He said it off the cuff, but real pain crossed MacLeod’s face and he lost three shades of the colour he’d just gained back. 

“I killed innocent bystanders?” MacLeod asked.

“You really don’t remember?” Methos asked, ever curious. Remembering every sword-stroke was no better than having all the faces of his victims blurring into half-a-dozen memorable deaths, but that was thousands years ago, not last week. 

Not yesterday.

“It’s all a blur,” MacLeod said, and held his hand up. He opened his eyes a crack, and then closed them again. 

“You didn’t kill any bystanders,” Methos said. “You hurt a few--" Dozen, he wanted to say, but didn’t. “--But you didn’t kill anyone you didn’t mean to.”

“And watchers?” MacLeod asked, and then blanched again. Any more colour loss, and he’d be back to corpse grey. “Joe? Did I kill Joe?”

“He’s alive,” Methos said, and the relief pinked up MacLeod’s cheeks a little. “But you did paralyze him from the waist down. The other three weren’t so fortunate.”

MacLeod groaned, and put his hand down. “Do you have a sword on you, Adam Pierson?” 

“Several,” Methos said. “But I’m not taking your head with any of them.”

“Do it. You’ll have more power than you’ll ever need.”

“I’ve had more power than I ever needed,” Methos said. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but what you’ve got is a raging case of one hell of a immortally transmitted disease. I’d rather you dealt with it than pass it on to me.”

“I’m not _him_ anymore,” MacLeod said. When he opened his eyes, he locked eyes on Methos. 

“You’re barely not him,” Methos corrected. “I can feel it inside you, swirling around. Best you not take any heads at all until you’ve got that sorted out.”

“Least of all yours?” MacLeod asked. He blinked, his dark eyes gaining more clarity with each passing heartbeat.

“Most of all mine,” Methos said. “There isn’t a word in any living language that would adequately explain just how bad that would be.” He stood up and offered his hand. “Can you stand?”

MacLeod nodded, tried to get himself up on his elbows first, but his abdomen wouldn’t let him push himself up the rest of the way. He probably had an extra pound or two of lead rattling around him that would take days to push itself out. Methos offered his hand, and MacLeod took it.

His hand was still filthy, and somewhat blue still around the cuticle, but the sheer rush of power just under the skin was enormous. He could have taken all of MacLeod’s physical weight, but the touch itself made him stagger. MacLeod, on his feet, grabbed his shoulders. “Careful there,” he said.

Methos pushed himself away, but didn’t answer. MacLeod’s quickening would be stunning, he knew. He had no need to be a god again, but the taste of other men’s fear would take the pain away. There would be no more room inside him for anything else. 

He shrugged his shoulders, feeling his joints pop. That was another man, in another world. He’d hold onto the ember of pain if that was the only bit of Alexa left. 

“Are those for me?” MacLeod asked, glancing down to the clothes at Methos’ feet.

“No. I’d much rather have you smell like a slaughtered ox in my car.”

MacLeod looked around the deserted field. “What car?”

Damn it. The car that was either still in long-term parking in a Greek airport or already in an impound yard. “Get dressed,” Methos said. 

*

Joseph’s was in a basement. Methos had gone with him to pick out the new bar’s location, but anything on the main street didn’t have the exact right feel. From the windows, people walked briskly to get from where they were to where they were going. From the knee down everyone looked so well dressed. It was that kind of neighbourhood.

But in the basement, everything was lit by neon lights from the signs and red votive candles on the tables. The bar was U shaped, and the rows and rows of bottles were mirrored and backlit.

The stage was off to the side. A set of drums were on a riser, but covered with a black drape. The bar was all but empty. Two men sat on the far side of the room away from the stage. They sat together, but their heads were down and they stared at the mugs of draft rather than each other.

Joe looked up at them as soon as the door opened. He'd been wiping down a glass that looked pretty spotless from where Methos was standing, but he supposed that that was part of the atmosphere, too. "Hey, Jean-Pierre, Robert," Joe called. He couldn't take his eyes off MacLeod, who stared back at him. In that moment, Methos didn't exist. Joe smiled in a way Methos hadn't seen in over a year. "If you wouldn’t mind calling it a day, I’ll square both your tabs."

The two men said nothing. They both had over half a glass remaining, but they tilted their heads as though practiced. Their adam's apples bounced up and down as they swallowed. 

MacLeod's mouth twitched a couple of times, and then broke into a wide smile as well. Methos had seen him smile quite a few times over the past few years, but it was an "I'm going to bathe in your blood" type smile. This time it didn't make Methos want to grab a back-up of his back-up weapon. 

The two men stood as Joe wheeled himself over to a light switch by the cash register, and when he hit it, the familiar blue and red OPEN sign turned dark in the window by the stairs.

MacLeod took in the wheelchair. It took the two men a moment to gather their things, tie their scarves and put their caps back on, but they did it with the practiced ease of men who started drinking in the morning. MacLeod's smile was gone, and in its place was horror. 

MacLeod didn't speak until both the men shambled off. He hadn't taken his eyes off Joe. The two men shuffled past them, oblivious, and MacLeod waited for the door to close before grabbing Methos and slamming him against the exposed brick wall next to the door. "Why did you bring me here?" MacLeod demanded. 

"You were friends," Methos said. He took the blow to his shoulders, which was enough to hurt. They were the same height, but MacLeod was at least fifty pounds heavier. Methos dangling a couple feet off the ground was apparently nothing to him. 

"Why?" MacLeod demanded. He slammed Methos back again. 

This time, the wall caught him across the back of his head. The thoughts inside his head were becoming murky. Joe reached under the bar, taking out a sawed of shotgun, but Methos shook his head even while it was being shaken about. There wasn't any anger in MacLeod, just endless pain and guilt. "I thought you would want to see Joe."

"Not like that," MacLeod said. His fists tightened even more on Methos' jacket, but Methos put his hands over MacLeod's wrists. Flesh-on-flesh, he could feel MacLeod fighting inside him. "Never like that."

"That's the way he is now," Methos said, as gently as he could without biting his tongue. "But he's alive and never doubted you'd come back for a second."

MacLeod's hands trembled, then he took a step closer so that he was pinning Methos to the wall with his whole body. He shook like the last leaf clinging to a tree in the late fall breeze. "Take my head," MacLeod said softly. "I cannot live like this."

"You're going to have to try," Methos told him. "The hatred you have for yourself will numb eventually."

"What would you know about that?" MacLeod asked. "Have you ever killed and killed and killed again?"

"We're not talking about me, right now," Methos said. "Put me down and let's go have a beer with your old friend."

MacLeod dropped him. He only fell two feet, but it felt a lot longer. He adjusted his coat and then locked the door behind them, aware that unlocking it to get out should MacLeod turn again would take up valuable seconds. Joe, with his wheelchair, would be forced to go down a dark hall to the building's utility room and use the elevator there. 

The trust would have to start somewhere. "Ready?" he asked MacLeod, who still hadn't moved. At least Joe had put away the shotgun.

MacLeod nodded, took two deep breaths, and turned around. Joe had three dark bottles of beer all lined up. Methos took the seat closest to the door. Neither Joe nor MacLeod looked like they were going to speak first. The silence grew, but Methos wasn't going to help by jumping in. He took a long sip of the ice-cold beer and waited.

"You look good," Joe said, finally. 

"You're a liar," MacLeod said, rubbing his chin. The scratchy sound made Methos' own face itch. "You look pretty good," he allowed, finally.

"All things considered?" Joe asked. 

MacLeod nodded. He downed half his beer, and both Methos and Joe waited in silence for him to do it. "I'm sorry doesn't go far enough. I can't ask for your forgiveness--" 

"Sure you can," Joe interrupted.

"This goes beyond that," MacLeod said. "I…" he trailed off. He placed the beer carefully down on the bar and braced his hands against the brass railing. 

"You weren't yourself," Joe said. "I get it. Everyone in this room gets it but you, Duncan. The Duncan MacLeod I knew wouldn't have done anything to hurt his friends."

"But I did. I knew exactly what I was doing and I did it. I remember the early days. It's not until I got back to France that things start going hazy."

"You could have killed me," Joe said. "I saw it in your eye. You're a good enough shot MacLeod; don't tell me you're not. If you meant to kill me you would have."

"Richie?" MacLeod asked. His fingers were white against the railing. "How is he?"

"Dealing with it," Joe said. "I have him running the other bar. He knows you're better, but he's not really ready to see you. Not yet."

"And Amanda?" MacLeod asked.

"In hiding. The bounty you had on her scared her pretty badly. She needs a little space."

"But you're not afraid of me," MacLeod said.

Joe shrugged. "I can't blame you any more than I could blame Coltec. He was a good man who sought out the worst of the worst for more than nine-hundred years."

"So did I," MacLeod said. 

"You took their heads. Not their evil-doing." Joe picked up his beer, offering it to MacLeod as a toast. "We have you back, now. The past is the past."

"The past is the past," Methos said, holding up his own bottle. MacLeod stared at them both for the longest time before picking up his own bottle. "Ditto."

"Say the whole thing," Joe said. Methos didn't know if he could possibly have dared.

"The past is the past," MacLeod said, between gritted teeth. He finished the rest of the bottle and put it down. "What were the watchers’ names?" 

"That's not here or there," Joe said.

MacLeod shook his head. "I can't help the immortals I killed. They were part of the game. I can't mourn for them. But the watchers were human and were just doing their jobs."

"They knew the risks," Methos said, faster than Joe could. 

"If that's right, you'd have no trouble telling me their names, if they were just doing their jobs."

"There's a certain level of confidentiality out there," Joe said. "We can tell you their first names, but their last names? Their families? We don't know."

Joe hadn't been a watcher for over six months. He'd tried a desk job, but the paperwork had gotten to him. He'd pensioned out, and any access to the files would have been controlled. 

MacLeod's face turned grey again, even in the pink light of the neon sign above him. "There has to be something I can do to fix what I've done."

"Wish I could help you, buddy," Joe said. He replaced their empties with three new bottles. "But red-tape is red-tape."

MacLeod's jaw clenched and his fingers curled into fists. Methos could feel him warring with himself as he just sat on the barstool. Good versus evil swirled round and round. Methos knew instantly that Mac needed to have something to do. Quests were old fashioned, but MacLeod needed something tangible to do to forgive himself. "I can tell you their names," Methos said, quietly.

"Adam," Joe said. He'd corrected himself just in time. "Don't go giving him any ideas."

"Ideas are the only thing he has right now. The first is going to be the hardest. He was a family man. He had a wife and children. They thought he was the best of the best, the most talented, and intelligent. You killed him right away. He died quickly, if that's any consolation. He made the mistake of trying to reason with you as Joe had."

MacLeod clenched his jaw. "How did I kill him?"

"You don't need to know that," Joe said, too quickly. MacLeod's anger flared up hot enough to burn. 

"You stabbed him," Methos said. "You agreed with him that things were getting out of control, and when he turned his back you stabbed him through the ribcage." Methos didn't say the man didn't suffer. It wouldn't help.

MacLeod put his head in his hands. "Why did you do that?" Joe demanded.

"Would you rather he imagine the worst?" Methos asked. "Because believe me, he will. You didn't do it, MacLeod. Think of it as a horrible movie that plays in your head. You can't change what's happened, but you can just think of it as a movie."

MacLeod shook his head. "Finish your drink," Methos said. He wanted to touch MacLeod's shoulder, but the muscles were so tight and the emotion so raw he didn't dare. MacLeod needed to go home, take a shower and get some rest, but the barge had been towed. "You're coming to my place."

"I can't do that," MacLeod said. He looked up, eyes sharp. "They took the barge, didn't they?"

"Well, yes."

He stood up. "I can't do this."

Methos felt a sharp stab of his own pain. It could have been himself, four thousand years ago or last week. "It's a completely new set of strengths, my friend. Life doesn't stop. Not even for us."

"It could," MacLeod said. His voice was very dark, very low. 

"Who is going to do it?" Methos asked. "I'm not going to kill you. I know I can't handle it. Are you going to try and do it yourself? Do you just want to trust fate to give the darkness inside you to the next immortal walking past? You have to deal with this yourself, or more innocent people are going to die."

"I--" MacLeod began, but didn't finish. "I didn't ask for this."

"No one ever does. But you can trust me. I can help."

"I don't even know you."

"No. But Joe does."

MacLeod glanced behind Methos to Joe. "I think he could help."

Methos looked behind him, too. That wasn't exactly high praise, but Joe didn't know about Kronos and Methos intended it to stay that way. "See?" he said. "I can help."

MacLeod stared at him for a good, long time. He wasn't tearing up, but his thick black eyebrows wavered and his was obviously biting the inside of his lips. "If I lose control again, I want your promise that you will put me down."

"No," Methos said. "You're not a dog."

"Dogs may be mean sometimes, but they can't be evil. If you can't take my head, I want you to kill me in a way that would ensure I couldn’t come back. A knife to the heart just isn't enough. It has to be more permanent."

Methos remembered the well and the look on Kronos' face as he fell into it. The well was so deep for a heartbeat it looked as if Kronos were floating in the air rather than falling at 9.82 seconds per second. The look of one betrayed stayed with Methos for centuries. Just a movie, he reminded himself. It happened so long ago it might as well have been a different person. "I'll do what I can," he said, finally. 

"It had better be your best. If you have any self-preservation, you have to know I'll be planning to take yours."

He wasn't kidding. Methos saw it in the dark eyes. "I promise," he said.

MacLeod promised. Joe called them a cab, and within the hour they were back in Methos' apartment. "When was the last time you actually slept?" Methos asked as he unlocked the door.

"I can't remember," MacLeod said, still blinking, but the stop and go of Paris traffic and the too hot air blasting into the back seat had lulled him into a relaxed state. It wasn't sleep, and every time he might have approached slumber his body jerked awake as though shocked. Each time, Methos jumped at the sudden movement, so they were both a bit irritable.

"There's only one bed," Methos said. He said, "Take it," at the same time MacLeod did. "I've slept in a lot worse places than a couch over the years. You look as though you could use the luxury of sleeping in an actual bed."

"I need a shower, first."

Methos unset the alarm. "That didn't need to be said."

MacLeod looked around at the bare brick walls and the piles of books everywhere, but said nothing. "Bathroom's this way," Methos said, pointing through the kitchen. "I'll get you a clean towel."

"You don't need to do this," MacLeod said, pulling off one boot at time. "I could stay at a hotel."

"I know. But I'd rather you stay with me. At least until…" he didn't finish. He didn't have to. MacLeod did it for him.

"You know I'm not going to either go evil or off myself?" MacLeod asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Do you blame me? You didn't level cities, but you might as well have. If you pass that darkness on it might end up in an even worse head."

MacLeod turned the light on in the bathroom. The huge rain showerhead was one of the few real luxuries in Methos' apartment. "I can take it from here."

"I'll bring you that towel."

Methos grabbed the largest towel he had. He meant to just open the door and place it on the counter, but stopped. His shower had glass doors, and with the ventilation, the glass hadn't fogged. MacLeod stood, bracing himself against the wall, letting the water pound down on him. His eyes were closed, his shoulders braced. 

Alexa hadn't been delicate. She was strong and fierce, even with the sickness ravishing her body. At the end, just before she'd wasted away, there hadn't been an ounce of extra strength left in her body. He'd touched her, wanting her to know he wasn't afraid of her, but towards the end he didn't know if she felt him.

MacLeod was muscle, from his broad shoulders down to his narrow hips, to his broad thighs and calves. He was beautiful in a completely different way. And yet, at that moment, he was just as fragile as Alexa had been. He would break just the same way.

Before there was a name for it Methos had loved men, his brothers-in-arms or co-conspirators. He'd wooed beautiful young men with curls and lithe figures, and allowed himself to be fucked just to share the warmth of the joined bodies. 

MacLeod was staring at him. "Did you forget something?" he asked.

"Towel," Methos said, holding it up. "I thought, maybe, you'd need…more." It sounded worse out loud than it had in his head. 

MacLeod turned to him. Don't look down, don't look down he told himself. Maintain eye contact. That lasted about a second and a half. MacLeod's broad pectorals and long torso with clearly defined abs were flawless. His cock, though flaccid, was as long as Methos' hand, and he had long fingers. He forced himself to meet MacLeod's gaze again. 

The way MacLeod looked at him probably meant Methos had been asked a question, but all he'd heard was the static in his head and the water. "What was that?"

MacLeod shaded the water from his eyes. Maybe he hadn't seen Methos checking him out. "I said, it's a long shot, but do you have any conditioner?"

"Conditioner," he repeated. Of course he did. In the boxes Joe had packed up for him before he returned to Paris so he wouldn't have to have Alexa's ghost hovering around her personal things. He'd insisted they travel light. After he'd shown her the sights in the early fall, they hightailed it south so that it would always be warm. "Yes. I have that."

MacLeod continued staring at him. 

"And I can go and get it. I could bring it back here, for you. To use." 

"Take your time."

Methos left, closed the door, then turned around and put the towel down on the counter and went into the storage room.

Joe had been a watcher. Even as a field agent, his notes had been as precise as any one of the researchers. He found the bottles in the box marked: bathroom, shower, conditioner -- deep and daily. Methos opened the box, and smelled a mixture of everything Alexa that wasn't Alexa herself. It left him with weak knees and a hurting heart. He didn't know the difference between the two conditioners, so he grabbed both of them and stood.

MacLeod was lathering his hair when Methos returned. The moisture in the air had finally overwhelmed the exhaust system, and the glass doors had fogged over. MacLeod didn't even appear to notice him as he slid open the back door and put the bottles down on the edge of the bathtub.

He shut the door behind him a third time, and made his bed from extra bedding in the linen closet. It was only four in the afternoon, but he was exhausted as well. He ordered pizza, and a beer delivery, and then took down a book from his bookcase. He didn't care what it was, or what language, even, and though he threw his entire attention span into it in by the time the shower stopped, he couldn't find his place when he looked up.

The pizza had come. It was still warming in the oven. None of his jeans would fit MacLeod, but he liked his sweaters big and baggy. MacLeod, with only the towel around his hips, disappeared into the bedroom and emerged, ten minutes later, dressed in the same pair of slacks and a new, white sweater.

They ate, drank, and watched a badly dubbed episode of the X-Files until MacLeod was falling asleep with his head resting on his chest. Methos turned off the television, and the sudden change of noise woke him again. "You should go to bed."

"I'm not tired," MacLeod protested, and hid a yawn behind his hand. It was only nine.

"Well, I am," Methos said. "And since you're sitting on my bed, in my house, I get to call bedtime. If you must, find a book or something to read."

MacLeod stood, his bones cracking. He really was tall. His hair had dried over the course of the evening, and over the smell of his clean skin came a whisper of Alexa's hair. Methos closed his eyes.

He heard MacLeod move to the bookcase. "You have a lot of first editions in here," MacLeod said. "The condition of them is amazing. Where did you find them?"

"Bookshops, mostly," Methos said. "I forgot you’re an antiques dealer."

"I used to be," MacLeod said.

"You still are. Joe boarded up the shop and managed all the upkeep. It's not like your inventory depreciated in the meantime."

"I just can't go back and…" MacLeod didn't finish. 

"Why not?"

"I shot Joe in the dojo. I almost took Rich's head."

"You didn't do either of those things. But if it's really a problem, you can liquidate it and start a whole new identity. Your identification is probably outdated by now anyway."

MacLeod grunted, but didn't say anything. The new lines in his face aged him an extra decade or two. His ID would still be good. He yawned, and his jaw cracked twice. He took a copy of Tom Jones. Better than a sleeping pill, Methos supposed. "These should really be in a museum," MacLeod said.

"Shouldn't we all," Methos said.

MacLeod made it all the way to the bedroom door before stopping again. "Thank you," he said, finally. "You didn't have to take me in. I appreciate it. If I'm…if I don't make it to the end, it's nothing that you did or didn't do."

"Bit too early for that, isn't it? Tom Jones isn't all that bad."

MacLeod shot him a look that told Methos the old MacLeod wasn't completely dead and buried. "Good night."

"Good night." 

MacLeod shut the door behind him. 

Methos had intended to stay awake during the night and keep an eye out, but he convinced himself it wouldn't hurt anything if he just closed his eyes. And then tilt his head so that he could rest it on the arm of the sofa.

When MacLeod started screaming, Methos bolted awake from a deep slumber.

Methos' bed had been neatly made when he'd left in the morning, but now the ground sheet had been pulled up, exposing satiny mattress over three of the corners. The sheets and the bedding had been twisted into ropes, and the pillows were scattered across the room.

MacLeod was still deep asleep, but he was bowed so that most of him wasn't touching the bed. His mouth was open, his eyes screwed shut, and his hair was wild about him. He screamed again, wordlessly, and his hands came up to defend his face. 

The last thing Methos wanted was to crawl into bed with MacLeod as he thrashed about, but after the second pillow he threw at MacLeod's head didn't help, he had no other way. MacLeod twisted the pillow, and how it didn't tear into two, Methos didn't know.

"Hey, MacLeod," he said, raising his voice. He put his hand on MacLeod's shoulder, giving him a shake. The skin under Methos' hand was ice cold. "Hey! Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod!" 

Nothing. Methos shook him a second time, and MacLeod grabbed his arm, hard enough that it almost pulled out of its socket. He would have yelped in pain if anyone was in the room, but alone there didn't seem much point.

He yanked his hand back, grabbing both MacLeod's wrists in his other hand. MacLeod fought, but asleep, he couldn't coordinate his attack. Methos used his free hand to rub MacLeod's sternum with his knuckles, as hard as he could. "Hey! MacLeod!" he shouted. "Upsy-daisy, come on, wake up!"

He was just contemplating using the glass of water he'd set out for himself the night before, when MacLeod's eyes flew open. He wasn't awake, not yet, but his pupils were completely dilated and he stared sightlessly straight at Methos. "I don't deserve your pity," he said.

"I don't pity you. I know how you feel. That's a different matter entirely." Methos knew he was talking to a sleeping man, but it didn't matter. 

"You couldn't possibly know." MacLeod had twisted his hands so now both of them held onto Methos' wrists, but it wasn't hurting him so he didn't mind.

"Oh, I know," Methos said. "And it didn't take a dark quickening for me to find out. Come on, Mac, wake up." He rubbed MacLeod's bare sternum one more time.

MacLeod blinked, once, twice, and a third time. He was awake, wide-eyed and staring. "What happened?" he asked, voice scratching.

Methos gave MacLeod the glass of water on the bedside table. "You had a nightmare."

"Oh," MacLeod said. He drank down the whole glass, and still when he swallowed his throat sounded dry. "I saw the ones I killed. There were so many of them. They just stared at me."

"Most of them were immortals. We all know it's a possibility. If it wasn't you, it would have been someone else. We're all but one going to fall under the blade. Anything we create for ourselves are just illusions within that reality."

"The watchers were mortal. They were just doing their jobs."

"Do you know there's a waiver we have to sign? I had to sign it every five years, but field watchers sign it every six months. They put their lives at risk every morning of every day."

"Is that supposed to help me?" MacLeod asked. 

"Momentarily. I'll help you lay your ghosts."

"Who are you?" MacLeod asked.

“Adam Pierson. Humble researcher. I already told you that.”

“I don’t know an Adam Pierson.”

“Believe it or not, MacLeod, you don’t know us all. We’re not like Pokémon. There’s no yearbook. I don’t even have a Facebook page.”

MacLeod wouldn’t let go of his wrist. “But I’ve never even heard of you.”

“Perhaps Adam Pierson isn’t my real name then.”

“What is your real name?”

“I’ve been out of the game.”

“Joe said I could trust you. How could I trust you if I don’t even know your name?”

“MacLeod…” Methos began, but then faltered. He had a point. Methos pulled a strand of thick black hair that was plastered across his face and tucked it behind his ear. It reminded him that MacLeod still had his wrist in his hands. MacLeod could crush it. There was no real reason for MacLeod to still be holding him, and yet he wasn’t letting go. “I am Methos.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I am Methos.”

“Methos,” MacLeod repeated, scornfully. “And I’m Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod.”

“I know Connor,” Methos said. “You’re not him.”

“Joe said I could trust you,” MacLeod said, pulling away. He crawled so that he could sit up with his back against the headboard. “And you’re playing games.”

“I can’t help it if you don’t believe me. Would you like me to keep trying until I find a name you like? How about Benjamin Adams? Kevin Sorbo? Cher?”

“You’re Methos,” MacLeod repeated. “Methos, Methos. Methos of the legend, that Methos?”

“It’s better than Cher, but yes. I’m that Methos.”

“Prove it.”

“How could I possibly prove that? Do you have some hieroglyphs handy you want me to read? Recite “We are the Champions” in Aramaic? There are other languages, even I have forgotten them.” 

“Methos.”

“Yes?” Methos asked.

“Nothing, just…Methos.”

“I’m just a guy,” Methos said. “A little older than you, but still. You’re Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, and if you get over this, you could win the whole thing.”

“Call me Mac,” MacLeod said. “Methos.” 

“Mac.”

Mac rested his head against the headrest. “Stay with me?” he asked. “I need someone to keep them away.”

Methos felt himself flush, but the room was dark enough to mask it. MacLeod couldn’t have seen him gawking in the shower, then. “I’ll take the floor.”

“It’s a big bed,” MacLeod said, reaching down and snagging one of the pillows. “I’m sure there’s no need for you to be uncomfortable.”

Methos took the pillow that MacLeod had almost ripped in two. “I suppose not.”

Twice during the night MacLeod started moving. His legs twitched as though he were running, and always, his hands tried to protect his face. Methos, not sure exactly what he was supposed to do, gripped onto MacLeod’s wrists, holding them down so he wouldn’t punch himself. He spooned up behind MacLeod, entwining their legs so Mac couldn’t struggle.

He didn’t think physically restraining MacLeod would do much for the nightmares. Yet the stronger he held MacLeod down, the more Mac relaxed. Even just readjusting his grip on Mac’s wrists was enough to make the man whimper. It had been a long time since he’s slept in the same bed with another man. He’d forgotten how much heat a man gave off. He’d forgotten how their regular scents intertwined to make a new, headier smell. He’d forgotten how perfectly their bodies aligned, and despite all his best intentions he couldn’t help getting harder. 

If he could just let MacLeod go long enough to take care of the problem he’d be fine, but every time he relaxed his hands MacLeod pulled closer to him, all but grinding his ass against him, which definitely was not helping matters. He had held onto MacLeod’s wrists as tight as he could and concentrated on his breathing. Counting backwards from a hundred helped, and then again and again. He remembered counting back to 36 and he was out.

*

When he woke up in the morning, he was alone in the bed. It felt late, mid morning at least. The day before had seemed like a terrible dream that he was just waking up from now, but then he heard banging around the kitchen. 

MacLeod. Mac. Erection. He moved, and felt his cock hot and heavy against his belly. If MacLeod had woken and felt it against him…the thought wilted the problem all but instantly. When he got up to urinate, he had no problem at all. He saw MacLeod in the kitchen as he crossed to the bathroom, but didn’t see him again until after he came back to the bedroom, got dressed, and reentered the main room.

His bedding on the couch had all been folded up. The smell of bacon mixed with coffee to make heavenly breakfast-type smells, and the last of the pancakes were being flipped on Methos’ electric grill. “I hope you don’t mind. I woke up with an excess of energy this morning.”

Apparently MacLeod had. Sausages sat on the back of the stove, warming with the bacon, and sunny-side up eggs sizzled in a different pan. Mac must have gone out in the morning to pick up half the things on the table. “You’re in a good mood,” he said, finally.

“I haven’t slept that well since…” MacLeod trailed off, good mood paused. “A long time, let’s just put it that way. I thought I’d thank you for letting me sleep in your bed by cooking you breakfast.”

It wasn’t just sleeping in the bed, Methos knew. It was holding him down while Mac slept in his bed. If he’d noticed Methos’ morning wood, he hadn’t mentioned it at all. It wasn’t until Methos was full of pancakes and bacon that MacLeod’s cheerful face clouded over.

“What was his name?” he asked, pushing his plate back.

“The first watcher was named Gerard Montblanc,” Methos said, knowing when not to play dumb. “He lived in Torcy on _Rue du Paris_.”

MacLeod nodded. It was barely out of the outskirts of Paris. “How many children did he have?”

“Two. A boy and a girl. They were seven and nine.”

“Wife?”

“Divorced. Remarried. She has a child with her new husband.”

“What was his cover story?” MacLeod asked, quietly.

Methos had spent too long hungry in his life to ever feel sick at having a full stomach, but he did feel a bit too hot. “He was supposed to be an art dealer. You were sticking to major cities, hunting, and he was supposed to need to travel a lot. What are you planning to do, MacLeod?” 

“Apologize.”

“Apologize?” Methos asked. “To the family?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it, then? Are you hoping for thirty years in prison to settle your affairs? And then what, tap into the government servers and remove all your records?”

“But I killed the man.”

“No, MacLeod. Officially it was a hit and run. You were there. You may have watched it happen, but you, the man I’m speaking with right now, had no more control over what happened than I do right now. You saw the man being killed.”

MacLeod frowned, but didn’t protest this time. 

“Repeat it. You saw the man die.”

“I…saw him die.”

“And you feel horrible about it.”

“I feel horrible about it.”

“You wish there was some way you could help his family with their struggle. Do you understand all that?”

MacLeod rubbed his face. “I saw the man die, and I feel horrible, and I want some way to help them with their struggle.” He paused. “That sounds terrible. I can’t say that.”

“Is any part of it not the truth?” Methos demanded.

MacLeod’s guilt was like a third person in the conversation. MacLeod kept glancing over to the window, as though the view into the apartment’s courtyard was going to help. His mouth was a thin line again, and his eyes kept wavering.

“If it helps, give them something that will actually hurt to lose,” Methos said, finally. “And let that be the price you pay.”

“I can do that.”

“Fine,” Methos said. “Excellent.” He didn’t want to have to walk through a prison metal detector every week just to do his weekly reports to the watchers. That would be awkward. 

“We’ll need to go to one of my storage units.”

Methos nodded. He had half a dozen hideaways in Paris itself, and in a dozen other cities. Small things collected through the years, where time and rarity only increased the value. Some of the paintings and artwork were no more then decorative now. Hundreds of artwork pieces never amounted to anything, but in a while and a while finding a young artist who would turn into a master happened, and they were able to finance centuries of living. It was a real thrill to find a painting where everything from the colour to the brush strokes to the subject gave off controlled beauty.

He still had feelers out in the art community, though it was much more difficult after World War II. So many masterpieces were stolen from their rightful owners and places. He didn’t know an immortal who didn’t return what was stolen. Whether it was anonymously, as he did, or with great fanfare, as some others did, it was important to all of them. 

Methos called up his car service. He’d need to buy something new, soon, but for now, it was easier. MacLeod took him to one of the warehouse districts. They parked on _Rue Eugene Varlin,_ , and though the center was closed so early on a Sunday, MacLeod still let himself in.

“That’s quite a trick,” Methos said.

“I own the business. I can’t afford to forget to pay the storage fees.”

That would have been quite the A&E television series, Methos thought, but followed MacLeod in. Storage lockers were storage lockers anywhere on the planet. The metal doors leading into tiny spaces that stored entire lives were the same. As he walked past each one he felt the stories seep through the cracks of the door. Here an old woman had died, and her children had packaged up everything in her house to deal with later and then never did, there a family was torn apart by divorce and neither could manage the massive furniture they’d purchased for their mcMansion in their separate apartment buildings.

Some of them were happy – the contents of two bachelor pads when the owners had met and married but didn’t want to throw away duplicates quite yet, but most were failed businesses, failed relationships, or failed lives. 

The security was all top notch, cameras with auto-focus, card readers for each level of the elevator, but the one that had the hand scan and the three alarm systems attached was obviously MacLeod’s. It was the entire top level. MacLeod moved so that his body kept Methos from seeing him punch in the codes, but Methos had his own squirreled away treasures. He didn’t need MacLeod’s.

Everything was boxed away, under drapes or locked up. MacLeod unlocked one of the storage units to reveal two-dozen swords. Methos felt the hair on the back of his neck lift. As far as he knew MacLeod wasn’t armed. They’d taken away the katana at the safe house and Joe hadn’t given him anything at the bar.

MacLeod needed a weapon; especially considering how many immortals would be gunning after him for their murdered friends, but Methos didn’t know if he wanted MacLeod to have a weapon just yet. 

Mac caught him looking. “You either trust me or you don’t,” he said.

“I trust you,” Methos said. His voice wasn’t usually that high. He felt lightheaded to match. There were claymores and twisted flamberges, long swords, sabers, falchions and scimitars. There were two different katanas, neither as beautiful as the one Geoff had, and rapiers that would be less at helpful chopping off heads. He chose a mortuary sword, with a bone handle and an elegant cage for his hand. Short and brutal, it would get the job done but with none of the grace of the katana. MacLeod took it out, swiped at the air a couple times, and then turned to Methos.

Methos jumped back. There was an armoire between them, and Methos planned to keep it there. “Put it away, MacLeod.”

“I’m not here to challenge you,” MacLeod said. Even as he said it, the darkness inside him leaked out of him like the stories behind their metal doors. He swiped the air again, just arms reach from where Methos stood. His eyes were dark again. There was a certain thrill in finding a well-balanced sword that felt like an extension of the hand, but that thrill fed the darkness.

MacLeod shook his head, as though waking again for the second time that morning. He stared down at his hand, and then dropped the sword. It bounced off the concrete floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I took it off an English immortal, after Culloden. It reminded me…”

“Perhaps you should leave it there and find another,” Methos suggested.

MacLeod nodded. He took a broad sword, a brutish beast that had none of the beauty of the English blade, and put it away in his jacket without even trying it out. Methos waited until MacLeod had gone to the back of the storage locker to search the boxes before he came around the armoire. He picked up the mortuary sword, put it amongst its brothers, and locked the unit. He didn’t realize his back was sweating until he bent down. He could insist MacLeod was MacLeod all he wanted, but the darkness was still inside him and it needed a way to vent.

“Here,” MacLeod said, taking out a velvet box. Methos recognized the velvet lined presentation box of a Faberge egg. “Which one is it?” he asked. 

“The Cherub with the Chariot,” MacLeod said.

Methos couldn’t resist. “Let me see?”

Like a proud father, MacLeod opened the box. The gold, sapphires and diamonds were beautiful on the rich blue background. MacLeod pried it open, and revealed a small watch in the shape of a chariot. “You going to give it to the family?”

“It should provide for his children.”

“These things need paperwork. You just can’t produce one; the authorities are going to think it’s stolen.”

“It isn’t,” MacLeod reached into the box and pulled out a very old, faded manila envelope. “It will change their lives.”

“If that’s what you think you have to do,” Methos said. There were still two more watchers to go, and if this was the path Mac was going to take, it was going to be an expensive one.

The house they pulled up to was a small one. It was as old as the dairy farmhouse, but a quarter the size. The swing-set took up most of the yard and the two-door car parked out in front had more rust than blue paint on it.

The two children playing in the small box of sand were grave-faced little ones, and the woman standing in the doorway with an infant in her arms had the same haggard look. Even the baby was strangely quiet.

Methos got out of the car. The woman, Pauline, if Methos’ files were correct, stopped her conversation with the neighbour. MacLeod said hello to both of them, and then stopped half way down the drive, waiting to be invited closer.

“Is something wrong with Michael?” she asked, in English. 

“Michael is fine,” MacLeod said, though he probably had no idea who he was or how he was doing. “I have something from Gerard.”

She shifted the baby in her arms. “Gerard,” she repeated. “ _qu'est-ce que c'est?_ ” What on earth is it? 

MacLeod held out the velvet box. The two children had stopped playing and were watching him too. “I was there the day your husband died,” MacLeod said. It was a bit of an improvisation, but he hadn’t announced his guilt yet. Methos remained tense, in case they needed to high tail it out of the neighbourhood and report the vehicle stolen. “He saved my life. I feel somehow I need to repay him, and you.”

She remained perfectly still. “Is this some sort of joke?”

MacLeod opened the box to give her a glimpse of what was inside. He put the box and the documents down by the wheel of her car. “I won’t trouble you any more. Forgive me for interrupting your day, Madame.”

She stayed where she was. One glance to the children, and they remained where they were, too. MacLeod backed away, slowly. Methos got into the car and started it. MacLeod came around the other side of the vehicle and they drove on.

MacLeod should have looked at least a little relieved, but if anything there was more tension in him. “What’s wrong?”

“She didn’t trust me.”

“Do you blame her?”

“People trust me, Methos.”

“People may have trusted you before, but things have changed.”

MacLeod brought his hand down hard on the dash. Methos winced, thinking of his deposit, but it didn’t look like there was any structural damage. 

“You don’t understand!” MacLeod said.

All Methos could do was drive, though his instincts told him to get out and get out now. The rage/anger/hurt coming off MacLeod filled the car. Telling MacLeod to calm down would have the opposite effect, but as he sat there thinking of what to do, MacLeod was going around and around in his head, thinking thoughts he shouldn’t be thinking.

Methos braked for a red light. Mac kept punching himself in the thigh, hitting harder and harder. It was too distracting to drive with him doing it. He gripped MacLeod’s wrist. “Stop it.”

Mac, to his utter surprise, froze under Methos’ grip. The light turned green. Methos couldn’t concentrate on holding onto MacLeod and driving at the same time. It seemed important that he hold MacLeod down. 

Someone behind him honked. Methos had to go. MacLeod was still, staring down Methos’ fingers holding his wrist. Rather than let him go, Methos drove with his free hand and his elbow. At least it was an automatic. If it had been a manual, Methos would have been screwed. But even through noon-hour traffic, Methos made it back to his apartment and into his parking spot.

From there, he was stuck.

MacLeod swallowed, loud enough that Methos heard. “I’ll be all right.”

“Promise?”

MacLeod tested Methos’ grip, but not hard enough to actually pull away. “I’m good.”

“We’re not done,” Methos said. 

MacLeod wasn’t looking at him, but staring out at the window again, to Methos’ parking spot number. So much anger remained, but at least it was contained for the moment.

Methos let him go. MacLeod yanked his hand back and instantly got out of the car, but remained by the building’s entrance as Methos turned off the car, got out, locked the door, and followed him to the well-lit doors to the basement.

MacLeod wouldn’t look at him. Not when the elevator brought them up to the fifth floor, not when Methos unlocked the door. MacLeod entered first.

Now MacLeod stared at him. If Methos had been a weaker man, it might have overwhelmed him. His brown eyes were full of accusation and blame. He was armed now, and they both knew it. Methos wasn’t going to do anything when Mac still had a sword.

Without a word, MacLeod took off his jacket. It fell with a clank, and Methos slowly reached over with his foot and pulled it backwards. He hadn’t noticed they’d been standing that close until he realized he could reach it.

Methos tossed his own jacket onto the back of the couch. Then they stared at each other. “Perhaps the bedroom,” Methos said, finally. Everything he needed was in the closet.

MacLeod nodded curtly. He entered and sat on the bed, fully dressed. His face was cold, his mouth in the now constant frown, and his body was hunched over. “How can I trust you?” 

Methos stopped in the doorway. “You just do.”

“I can’t.”

“Then get off my bed.”

MacLeod didn’t move. He looked back down at his hands and the glower deepened. “You’ll take my head.”

“If you can’t fight this, there’s no way I can.”

“There’s more room in you.”

“I told you. I’m just a guy.” MacLeod opened his mouth to argue, but Methos held up his hands, and that shut him up. “Rocks are thousands of years old. You don’t revere them.”

“What you must have seen--" MacLeod began, expecting Methos to interrupt. Methos didn’t, and MacLeod didn’t continue.

“What I saw would not give me more any advantage over the plague that is in your head. You see the good in other people, MacLeod. I only see the good in you.”

“I can’t do this.”

“There is another way,” Methos said, softly. 

“What?” MacLeod demanded. “I’ll do whatever it is.”

Methos dusted off his hands. “Fine. I’ll find the most saintly immortal I can. The one who is doing the most good for the most amount of people and has been doing so for at least the past millennia. Then I’ll bring him back here, you can lop his head off, and we’ll wait for the light quickening to scrub you clean of all your sins.”

MacLeod pulled back in horror. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”

“Because there is no other easy way out of this. We do things, MacLeod, things we’re not proud of and wish we can erase.” Methos heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He could tell MacLeod who he was, what he’d done, but he’d spent several mortal lifetimes scrubbing his name from history. Turning fact to legend, legend to myth, and myth to obscurity. If MacLeod ever found out what he’d voluntarily done, not through any dark quickening but because it was kill or be killed and rule or be ruled, MacLeod would lose all faith.

That was the only thing MacLeod had to hold onto right now. He wasn’t pulling it away. “Darius at the city gates didn’t choose the life of a monk. It was forced on him. I can’t make you a saint, but I can allow you to look at yourself in a mirror and not want to break every reflective surface you can.” 

“Joe trusts you?”

“Yes,” Methos said, flatly. It wasn’t a lie so much as it was rounding up.

“And you think you can help me.”

“Yes,” Methos said, suppressing all his tells. 

“What do I have to die?” MacLeod asked. 

Methos stared at him. 

MacLeod put his hand over his mouth. “Do. I meant do.”

“Lie back,” Methos said. _And trust me_. 

“I don’t have to take off my clothes?”

“This isn’t the sort of thing that’s going to come with a happy ending. Not for a good long time.”

MacLeod’s mouth twitched, but he shifted back so that he could lay down. 

It only took a second for Methos to find the box in his closet full of leather ties, but by the time he’d returned, MacLeod was already breathing heavily through his nose. His stomach was tense, and waves of disgust and loathing passed over him like contractions. Methos had tied down hundreds of people, and he was grateful for the muscle memory that allowed him to secure the wrists first, then the feet, without hesitation or mishap. By the time Methos had secured MacLeod’s left ankle, he was already fighting his wrist restraints. If it had taken a second longer, Methos would have needed a second body to keep a sword to Mac’s throat while he finished tying him down.

“This was a mistake,” MacLeod said. His voice had lowered, his eyes had brightened, and the smile on his face had nothing to do with joy. “If this is how you get your rocks off, I can think of other, more naked ways of doing it.”

“They’re your rocks,” Methos said, moving to the side of the bed. He was glad he’d brought an armchair in the bedroom so that he could put socks on more easily. He didn’t think he could leave the room. “You do what you want with them.”

“Do you really think leather straps can hold me down if I don’t want them to?” MacLeod, or rather, dark MacLeod asked. His fists were clenched, but he wasn’t fighting the bonds. Not anymore, at least.

“You’re not my first rodeo.”

MacLeod’s smile deepened. He tried to yank his left fist free, but the leather-lined iron shackles and the bedframe itself were reinforced enough to hold anything. He had almost gone shopping at Ikea for his bedroom furniture but went old school at the last second. MacLeod tried his right fist, then both, together. No matter how much he fought, though, the bed didn’t even groan in protest. “You can’t keep me tied down forever. And when you let me go, I’ll take your head. Methos, the oldest one of us all.”

“There are others,” Methos said. Though the thought of dark MacLeod joining forces with Kronos made him a bit weak in his lower body. They’d kill each other, fuck their brains out and then kill each other, or rule the world, while fucking each other. Kronos would think himself lost in an Apple Store where everything was free if he ever found MacLeod like that. Their sadism and destruction would destroy the planet. They’d rule over what remained. “Any time now, MacLeod. Sean Burns is in there. I know you’re tired but you have to fight.”

“I am just MacLeod!” MacLeod fought harder, turning the skin around his wrists and ankles bright cherry red even as his body healed itself. 

“No. You’re not.”

Dark MacLeod closed his eyes. The fight started for real. Methos watched every battle. MacLeod opened his eyes three times, claiming that he was the real MacLeod and that he’d won, but Methos didn’t even bother to answer. There was nothing dark MacLeod could do to turn off the bright spark behind his eyes.

Around the seven-hour mark, the first sign of peace appeared. MacLeod’s face relaxed, as it had when he was sitting cross-legged in the cell. But he didn’t open his eyes and he didn’t beg to be released. Methos called for Chinese, hoping that MacLeod wouldn’t start screaming when the delivery guy was at the door, but the peace remained unbroken throughout the evening and all through the night.

When morning came, and MacLeod finally opened his eyes, the bright light was gone. He cleared his throat, which turned into a major coughing fit, and then he relaxed his hands in their cuffs, working the separate muscle groups individually. 

“Are you back?” Methos asked. 

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” MacLeod asked.

“I’m not usually the trusting sort, but I would if you did. Do you remember anything from yesterday?”

“I remember the egg,” MacLeod said. “And the anger. And you holding my wrist.”

“And the bed?”

“It’s fragmented. Like trying to recall a dream an hour or two after waking up. I’m hungry, and I really have to use the washroom.”

Methos studied his face, but there wasn’t any deceit. His forehead was smooth, his dark eyes warm, and his lips had actual colour. Methos still felt the darkness inside MacLoed, but it was dormant, like a volcano. It was neither extinct nor active.

Methos left him in the room and went back to the sofa where he had thrown his jacket. He brought out his sword, and carried it under his arm as he came back into the bedroom.

“What’s that for?” MacLeod asked, with not so much fear as unease.

“It’s just for my protection. If you are who you say you are, you’d understand my concern.”

MacLeod relaxed in his bonds. He exhaled. “I trust you.”

“Good.”

Methos freed him. MacLeod disappeared into the bathroom for about half an hour and then came back and hoovered up the leftovers. Still hungry and needing coffee, they went down to a café. 

Life continued.

*

A month passed. Methos had found out where the second watcher’s partner within a matter of days, but told MacLeod he was running into roadblocks. Whether MacLeod believed him or not was a different story, but he accepted it. It took a month to straighten all the mess dark MacLeod had caused. Warrants for his arrest had to be deleted or altered so they it no more resembled MacLeod than they resembled Methos. Property damage was covertly paid for, even above what the insurance would have covered. 

MacLeod didn’t talk about the cost. For the first of couple weeks, he came to Methos holding the shackles. Methos dropped what he was doing and tied MacLeod up. It was as bad as potty training a toddler. Twice Methos was so worried the neighbours were going to call the police from the noise alone, but he’d put down a small fortune on soundproofing the apartment and it had paid off.

The dark fits never lasted as long as that first time. By the second week MacLeod had control back within the hour, and by the third it was within twenty minutes. Still, Methos kept MacLeod cuffed to the bed, but he started to bring a book so he could read. Watching MacLeod relax while smiling to himself with his eyes closed was interesting for the first hour, but MacLeod could stay in that state all night and Methos couldn’t leave him alone through any of it.

When MacLeod spent a night tied up without a single incident, Methos decided he was ready for stage two. “When was the last time you remember being in Bordeaux?” he asked, the next morning.

“At least a century ago. Why?”

“It was a lot more recent than that.”

They’d been sitting in a sidewalk café, sipping tiny cups of espresso while eating pastry. MacLeod put his cup down. “Oh.”

“Oh is right,” Methos said.

“This was the woman?” MacLeod asked.

Methos nodded. 

“Did she have a husband? Children?”

“No. Astrid had a wife. They didn’t have kids.”

“Oh,” MacLeod repeated.

“Oh is right,” Methos said again. “Colette knows.”

“Knows about what?”

“Us in general. Your dark friend in particular.”

“Astrid told her about us?”

“Not in so many words. Your friend attacked her when she was at home with Colette. Astrid shot him four times, but before she could start on his head, he came back and broke her neck.”

MacLeod winced. “How did the watchers contain it?”

“The usual way. Money and non-disclosure acts. My superior, Geoff wanted to arrange a car accident to take care of the little problem, but in a world where most Americans believe in angels Colette was bright enough to realize that if she started talking about immortals who could be shot and life, she’d be lucky if William Shatner covered it on a _Weird or What_ episode.”

“So what does she want?” MacLeod asked.

Methos took a sip of the espresso. There was no reason for the coffee to die just because they were discussing dark things. “I don’t know. You’re going to have to find out.” 

They drove in silence. Methos kept glancing over, expecting to see dark MacLeod’s smile or the glint back in his eyes, but MacLeod’s entire demeanor didn’t stray from remorseful. “How old was she?” MacLeod asked, when they passed the Bordeaux city limits sign.

“Thirty-eight.”

“How long was she my watcher for?”

“Seven months. There was absolutely no indication he knew who she was or what she was doing.”

“You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to refer to me in third person.”

“ _You_ didn’t kill her, MacLeod. Someone did, but it wasn’t you.”

“I remember seeing a woman across the street in Paris,” MacLeod said. “When she showed up in a crowd in Croatia I knew what she was.”

“Do you remember killing her?”

“No.”

“Do you remember deciding to kill her?”

“No.”

“Then it wasn’t murder or premeditated.”

“She still died.”

“She was doing her job,” Methos said. “Do you think watchers get to choose whether they’re going to follow good or evil immortals? It’s a job, MacLeod. A job where bad things can happen, but also where you get to see history made. And don’t you dare think unkinder things about yourself because she happened to be a woman. She fought for her right to become a field agent rather than just a researcher.”

MacLeod didn’t say anything. Methos drove to Colette’s house without help from the GPS. He’d helped her through the worst of the aftermath; he was sure she’d trust him for this next part. “You’d better let me go in first,” Methos said, turning onto her street.

Once he parked, he unrolled his window and took out a pair of handcuffs. “Unroll your window and then loop this around the steering wheel. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

MacLeod looked at him, eyebrows almost touching, as if he was about to say, _Do you think all of this is necessary?_ Methos shot him his oldest, coldest look. MacLeod pursed his lips and did what Methos told him to do.

He got out of the car and crossed the road. Colette had put in a small flower garden under her front window, and the grass was neatly trimmed. The first time he’d come to visit her, the grass was so long it waved in the breeze. The shutters and door were a new bright and cheery yellow, but the siding hadn’t changed.

He knocked on the door rather than ring the doorbell. He heard Colette speak to someone, but not the other person’s response. The peephole in the middle of the door darkened, and then the front door opened. The screen door remained shut between them, and if Methos tried it, he bet it would be locked. “Adam?” she asked, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to show you something, if you’re ready for it.”

She changed in an instant. Her guard came up as though it were a suit she wore over her jeans and sweater. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What is it?”

“Amends,” Methos said. “But only if you want it.”

She tried to look past him. He didn’t move from where he stood, knowing he was effectively blocking the car from the front door. “What is it?” she repeated, this time her voice sharper. “Do you have him? Is he here?”

Her voice wasn’t shrill with fear, but dark with anger. She opened a drawer out of his line of sight and picked up something heavy and metallic. “He’s under control,” Methos said, softly. “I told you he wasn’t himself, that he was under the force of something bigger and darker than us all.”

She made a sound in the back of her throat. One that sounded as though she still wanted to shoot him in the face. “Please don’t,” he said. “The car’s a rental.”

“Are you saying he’s better now?” 

“Who is it?” someone, another woman, called from further inside the house.

“Jehovah Witnesses,” Colette called back.

“Tell them you’re happily homosexual.”

“It will just be a moment, sweetheart.” She looked back to Methos, daring him to judge, but he kept his mouth shut. “Is this for me or for him that you’re doing this?”

“You said you wanted an apology. I wouldn’t have brought him here if it was just for him.” 

She tapped her Magnum .357 against the side of the screen door. He was surprised it didn’t break. “And if I did want to shoot him in the face?” she asked.

“He wouldn’t do anything to stop you.”

“And you?” In America, her accent was so Midwestern it was almost invisible. Here, it flattened all the words to their bare, basic meaning.

“I’d ask for time to unlock him first.”

She stood in the doorway for a second. “I forgot something in my car,” she called. When there was no answer, she put the gun down and opened the door.

She followed him down to the street, and then stopped. MacLeod stopped fussing with the handcuffs the moment he saw her. “Were those really necessary?” she asked.

“Maybe,” Methos said.

“You said he was better now.”

“He is. They’re for you.”

“He just let you put them on?”

“He put them on himself.”

“For me?”

Methos nodded.

She stopped in the middle of the road. It was a cul-de-sac, but still, he worried for her. MacLeod opened his mouth to speak, but she put up her hand. “Don’t,” she said.

MacLeod shut his mouth loud enough to be heard from where they were standing.

“I don’t want your apology,” she called. “You can’t apologize for what you have done.”

MacLeod nodded.

“But you do owe me.”

MacLeod nodded a second time.

“I know what you are.” As angry as she was, her voice didn’t break. “You owe me. Do you understand? You owe me a favour. I don’t know what it is yet, but one day I’m going to come to you and you had better bend over backwards to make sure it happens. Do you understand me?”

MacLeod nodded, a third time.

“It may not be me. It may be my children or my children’s children, but you will owe them as much as you owe me.”

MacLeod went to nod, but she stamped her foot. “Now you can speak.”

“Anything I can do,” MacLeod said. “I’ll do it.”

It was her turn to nod. She glanced at Methos, just as angry at him as she was at MacLeod, and she turned back to the house. She went back inside and slammed the door behind her.

Methos waited, in case she had forgotten something, but when the door stayed shut for over a minute, he got inside. “That went well,” he said.

“For what it was,” MacLeod said. With the windows unrolled the car was freezing, but Methos didn’t roll his window up or start the car. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure she was ready for that.”

“She sounded ready.”

Methos looked at him again. It wasn’t for MacLeod to decide, and a part of him felt a little sick. He finally unlocked the handcuffs and started the vehicle, but didn’t know how he’d feel if someone had forced him to remember Alexa’s death before he was really ready. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“We only have one more.” 

“And then what?” Methos demanded. “It’s over? It may be over for you, but it’s never going to be over for them.”

“You don’t think I know that? I have to live with what I did every single day. Only I’m never quite sure what I did, and I don’t know if what I dream I did goes too far or doesn’t go far enough. I know it’s not enough, but it’s all I can do.”

Methos was supposed to agree with him, but he rolled up his window and put the car in gear. They made it to the freeway before MacLeod rolled up his own window, but Methos didn’t say a word about the cold.

*

They’d just gotten back from going out for a beer. Just one, of course. Methos used to love the endless nights of good beer, good company and good conversation, but when MacLeod drank, things happened. 

Not always. Being tied to the bed had helped a lot. It was helping a lot. When they passed in the open area or walked down the street together Methos’ self-preservation almost never let off he was walking next to a predator. MacLeod had started his meditation again. They went to the opera as much as the jazz festivals and Methos’ weekly reports back meant a lot of copy and pasting.

He’d spent the day back in the dairy, which had been unpleasant. That MacLeod hadn’t gone evil again stuck in Geoff’s craw because it meant Geoff was wrong. Methos, as Adam, had nothing to say. He was doing his job. 

It wasn’t much of a surprise then, just after he’d taken off his boots, that Methos felt the immortal’s presence in the room as though his ears had just popped. He went to the door to answer it, but Mac stopped him. “No. Let me.”

“It’s my apartment,” Methos said.

“Is there any chance that whoever it is wants you?” MacLeod asked.

Methos stepped back.

The person didn’t knock, they pounded. The wall was solid iron under the wooden panels, as strong as it was sound proof, but it still shook from the beating.

“Maybe he’ll go away?” Methos asked.

“It’s not like he doesn’t know I’m in here.”

Methos bit his lip. One immortal felt like a dozen, but it still made him sick that he’d have to move again. Books weighed more than bricks did in boxes. He’d been comfortable in the apartment. But if the word was out, he had no choice.

There wasn’t a peephole; Methos had no desire to get shot in the eye. MacLeod opened the door. “I’m Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod,” Mac said. For the first time since the dairy, when he said the words they didn’t have the touch of sarcasm. 

“I know who you are,” the man at the door said. He was big, half a foot taller than MacLeod, half a foot wider, and a hundred extra pounds on his frame. He had a Norwegian accent, and a scar that ran down half his face, from his right cheekbone down to his left jaw. It missed his nose by a fraction but bisected both his lips. The last time Methos had seen a picture of Kjell, the big man hadn’t had the scar. But what he was doing in Paris, Methos didn’t know. He hadn’t left Norway in two hundred years. “Let’s finish what you started.”

“Not here,” MacLeod said. “The rooftop.”

Kjell was the bigger of the two; he’d be the one at the most disadvantaged in the small quarters, not to mention the neighbours Methos appeared to have, which of course he didn’t because he owned the whole floor. He nodded, and left them. “Stay here,” MacLeod told him.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Methos said, and grabbed his own jacket. MacLeod was already at the stairwell and Methos had to run to catch up.

At least Kjell hadn’t been laying in wait by the door. By the time Methos made it to the top, the two of them were already exchanging blows. The two-handed sword was much heavier than the katana and had none of its grace, but Mac didn’t seem to even notice the difference.

He didn’t even seem to get tired. Methos knew MacLeod hadn’t picked up a sword since the warehouse, over two months ago, but he was always the aggressor, always pushing Kjell back. Kjell had an axe almost as big as he was, but it took a lot of effort to swing and with MacLeod always pressing he didn’t have the advantage of getting a full blow in. 

Methos was starting to get a bad feeling. Not over MacLeod losing -- it was obvious he had the advantage -- but the fact that he kept pushing it felt wrong. MacLeod’s back was to him for most of the fight, but it wasn’t until Kjell managed to twist and retreat back to the stairs where Methos was standing that he saw the press of MacLeod’s lips. 

He could have been smiling, if he was concentrating an ounce less on the battle. His eyes were still dark; Methos supposed that was a good thing. Kjell missed the stairs and got backed right up to the edge of the building yet again. “Are you going to jump this time, too?” MacLeod asked.

Kjell didn’t answer. 

Methos felt his stomach drop. MacLeod remembered the battle. And if he remembered the battle, he wasn’t MacLeod any more. Methos heard a grunt of pain, heard the sound of metal hitting bone, and looked, expecting to feel the air electrify around them.

Kjell had twisted in the last moment. Mac’s sword bit into clavicle, not neck. Kjell threw the axe over the edge, not able to hold it any more with his now useless arm, and threw himself backwards.

Like Kronos, for a heartbeat he just hovered there, defying gravity. Then, as though making up for that second, he slipped out of view and was gone.

MacLeod glanced over the edge, obviously wondering if he should jump or not, and then hightailed it to the stairs. Methos put all his worry into a neat little box inside him and stood his ground between MacLeod and the door.

“Enough,” he snapped, as cold as the chill in the air. They were the same size, but Methos pulled everything he had into looking bigger, meaner, and more powerful.

He didn’t have his sword out. That might have been a mistake. MacLeod was both armed and bloodied. His mouth opened, taking in the air to breathe, but Methos took a step closer. “No.”

MacLeod hesitated, if only for a second. That second was enough. He opened both his hands at once, but the leather wrapping around the sword’s hilt stuck to his hands for a second before the weight of the sword allowed gravity to take over.

It fell between them, too far for Methos to kick it away. Not that he could this time. He’d have to look away from MacLeod’s eyes to find out exactly where it fell and that would have been a very bad thing indeed. “Are you done?” Methos demanded.

MacLeod looked away first. “I’m done.”

But he wasn’t. The small acorn of darkness inside him had grown into an entire tree in the middle of the fight, and if it happened once, it would happen again, and again, and again. Methos couldn’t ask MacLeod to just stop fighting. That would be suicide.

But he had to get rid of the darkness forever. No amount of it inside him was safe. “Go downstairs and wait in the bedroom,” Methos ordered. 

MacLeod stepped around the sword to obey. There were no other weapons at least none that MacLeod would find in the apartment. There were the cooking knives, but if MacLeod resorted to that he’d just shoot him and take them away. He’d thought he was done with his cold calculations, but they had come back to him as easily as the rest of the persona had.

He waited for the door to close before standing down. His hands shook as he picked up the sword. Its hilt was still warm. MacLeod wasn’t the only one who’d trained in different weapons. With the brutish weapon in Methos’ hands came brutish thoughts. No wonder the darkness had come. MacLeod was going to need something that had beauty and grace in his hands as soon as possible.

He went down the stairs, expecting MacLeod lurking in every shadow, but Methos was alone in the stairwell and the hall. His apartment looked deceptively normal. The only change was that his bedroom door had been shut, and now it was opened.

MacLeod sat on the bed. He’d already put the shackles on his feet and was just finishing his left wrist, but his hands were shaking so badly it wasn’t buckling correctly. “I can’t,” he said.

Methos slid his jacket off his shoulders and then took the buckle from him and did it up without a word. He reached over and did up the right hand. He felt MacLeod’s hot breath on his ribcage. Mac’s was still breathing hard from the fight, and his face was dotted with sweat.

When Mac was secure, Methos left to go into the ensuite and got a hand cloth wet. He wrung it out and brought it back. MacLeod had squeezed his eyes shut, but Methos didn’t feel as though he were fighting with himself. Maybe he hadn’t lost control during the fight. Maybe it wasn’t possible to defeat the darkness. Methos didn’t want to think of MacLeod wrestling with it the way he’d had to over the past four thousand years, but maybe that just wasn’t going to be possible.

Methos wiped off Mac’s forehead and temples. The lactic acid in his muscles should have been reabsorbed by now, but MacLeod was still breathing hard. Sweat dripped from his hairline onto the skin Methos had just wiped off. “You can use your anger without giving in to it,” Methos said.

MacLeod snorted, turning his head away from the cloth. It just exposed more neck to be wiped off. “Do you doubt the words or the one who spoke them?” Methos asked, carefully.

“Both,” MacLeod said, eventually. By then Methos had worked his way down Mac’s throat.

“May I?” Methos asked, putting the cloth down for a second and touching the first button of MacLeod’s shirt. MacLeod nodded, curtly, and Methos unbuttoned the shirt one by one. “Would you rather I’d quoted Yoda?”

“The anger isn’t me.”

“Your history suggests otherwise.”

“That’s my anger. This…thing inside me isn’t me.”

“Maybe it is now. Maybe’re all the sum total of our experiences, not just our choices. If we all got to decide what we could go through the world would be a much better place.”

Another snort.

“That was a perfectly reasonable assumption. Now I know it’s just me you’re not trusting.

“You are one to talk.”

Methos was one to talk. He’d reached the bottom of MacLeod’s shirt and pulled it as far back as Mac’s bound arms would let him. Stretched out as he was, as angry as he was, each muscle group was magnificent. “You don’t know me, MacLeod.”

“I know you’ve taken yourself out of the game for the past 200 years.”

“That comes to a grand total of 4% of my lifespan. How long did you spend in your American tribe?”

“I can’t argue with you,” MacLeod snapped, even as Methos began to wipe down his shoulders. “You seem to know everything about me and I know nothing about you.”

“Except how old I am.”

MacLeod was quiet, reverse engineering his age. “You say you’re 5000 years old?”

“Give or take. You forget things like what year you were born, not that they kept time the same way though. You remember things until you don’t.” Methos had reached MacLeod’s sternum. “May I continue?”

MacLeod’s eyes were closed, but he had stopped squeezing them. “Yes. You’ve never lived through such anger,” MacLeod said. “Such hate. You couldn’t possibly...” MacLeod trailed off.

“Parents just don’t understand,” Methos quoted. “How would you know what I do or do not comprehend?”

“There’s nothing like taking a dark quickening,” MacLeod said.

“Unless it is behaving as though you had under your own choices and decisions.”

MacLeod froze. Methos had been washing his side, but stopped. 

“Joe trusted you.”

“He still does. I am not the man I was. It’s been four thousand years, MacLeod. You are not who you were four hundred years ago.”

“What--" MacLeod began, but Methos reached up and pressed his finger against MacLeod’s lips. It wasn’t hard enough to actually stop him from talking, but he stopped anyway.

“Please don’t ask me that. I may tell you eventually, but under my own volition. I know I can’t stop you from assuming the worst, but please respect my choice.”

“People don’t change,” MacLeod said, still under his finger.

“People don’t usually change,” Methos said. “In your own lifetime you have known men who have gone from good to bad. Is it so hard to imagine the opposite. It’s not easy to make the change and it’s certainly difficult to maintain it, but it can be done.”

Both hands were on MacLeod’s body. MacLeod’s lips were soft and his pectorals were hard. Methos allowed himself a moment just to savour the sensation. Methos moved his hand down, below the navel but still above the jean’s waist, and looked MacLeod in the eye. MacLeod’s expression froze. 

MacLeod would demand to be free and Methos would do it, but the very part of him he tried to repress from day to day reminded him how much easier it was when chains were involved.

That thought alone made him lift up his hands and move off the bed. No one deserved to be restrained and violated. The thought was as abhorrent today as it was a part of life back then. People did change. 

“Don’t,” MacLeod said, pulling his shackles. He twisted towards Methos, though, not away. “I didn’t say stop.”

“You certainly weren’t indicating I should continue.”

“I had to think about it.”

“You didn’t think about it for very long.”

“Let’s just say you made a very convincing case.”

“You’re usually not that swayable.” And by swayable, Methos meant homosexual, but he didn’t say that out loud. 

“You said it yourself. Times change.”

To make it more believable, Methos returned to the en suite and rinsed out the cloth before returning to the bed. MacLeod had stopped sweating before Methos had finished his shoulders but Methos knew exactly where he had left off. He spread the cloth over MacLeod’s abdomen and splayed his fingers over it. MacLeod shivered as though the cloth was cold, but it was as hot as Methos could stand.

“And your other hand,” MacLeod said.

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I restrained you,” Methos said, feeling a hot flush start across his own chest. 

“Times change,” MacLeod repeated. Methos brushed the cloth over MacLeod’s navel and his whole body tensed. “I want to feel good again.”

Methos brought his index finger back up to MacLeod’s mouth. He moved in slow motion, telling himself the whole time that this is not what he wanted, that it was too soon, that the wound Alexa left was still so fresh. Colette had moved on, and had had actually looked happy when she had stood in the door. He was capable of so many things, so many emotions all at the same time.

MacLeod stared at him. Methos took a second to realize he had stopped moving. “Too soon?” MacLeod asked.

“By mortal standards.”

“We are not mortal.”

Methos nodded. He touched MacLeod’s throat with his free hand and felt his the strong, healthy pulse under his fingertips. His other hand grazed the top of MacLeod’s jeans. The heat from his body radiated even through the still-warm cloth. It felt so different. Healthy, sustainable life, from a body that would never wither, never die. He’d loved Alexa so thoroughly, but the very real limitations of her body were something they struggled with. Their lovemaking, the few times they’d actually managed it had been so gentle. It had to be. Alexa’s body was as fragile as the imperial egg MacLeod had just given away, and just as precious.

He could just fuck MacLeod as hard as he could. There would be no consequences. Even the burn the shackles would leave on his wrists would fade within minutes. It was tempting and intoxicating at the same time.

Without another word Methos stood up and undid MacLeod’s ankles. He stripped off the man’s jeans in less than ten seconds. The box the shackles had come in had lube, though he couldn’t attest to the expiry date. If petroleum jelly came from dinosaurs it could wait another couple years past the 64,000,000 years in its making. It wasn’t like it would revert back into stegosaur.

From there it was just carnal. He didn’t know when he’d gotten hard, but he ached under his fingers as he applied the jelly. MacLeod’s dick was so hard it slapped his belly the second it was free from his clothing. He became aware of the smell of their arousal, but didn’t know when it had started. Since he’d entered the room, at least.

He realized the danger, even as he pushed inside MacLeod. If MacLeod hadn’t been able to control himself during the swordfight, than fucking wasn’t the best of activities. Especially when the first sign of pain crossed MacLeod’s face. Methos realized his fingernails had dug into MacLeod’s skin and he should be taking his time pushing himself all the way in, but the second he slacked off MacLeod made a sound deep in his throat. “Don’t,” he said. “I want it.”

That changed everything. The harder he fucked, the more noise MacLeod made. He didn’t think MacLeod was the type. He seemed too stoic for it. That he’d actually thought about the way MacLeod would take an ass-fucking was news to him, but pleasurable in its own deep, dark way. With MacLeod’s wrists bound and his legs wrapped around Methos’ thighs, fucking himself as much as Methos was fucking him, Methos didn’t really need both hands holding onto MacLeod’s hips. He could easily take one of them off, gather MacLeod’s cock and jerk him off the with remnants of the jelly still on his fingers.

It pleased him to wait. He knew MacLeod would beg for it, and sure enough, when he couldn’t push any harder or faster inside, MacLeod begged. Without words at first, but if Methos waited he knew MacLeod would eventually say what he wanted to hear.

“I need your hand,” MacLeod said, his head thrown back so that his throat was fully exposed. “Please. I want. I--"

It was enough for Methos. His body surged with electric sparks almost as explosive as a quickening, but far better than taking a head could ever be. And really, MacLeod’s cock was also coming before Methos even wrapped his fingers around it, but jerking it off, even as he felt himself losing control, added to the pleasure. MacLeod’s cock was as hard as his was, but the skin was so soft. Feeling just how delicate it really was despite the solid feel just worked for him.

They made eye contact. There was a glint to MacLeod’s eyes, but it wasn’t evil. He wasn’t fooling himself that it could never be evil again, but for right now, in this one perfect moment, he was fucking Duncan alone, without a hint of that dark acorn inside him sprouting.

Methos kept himself as aware as possible, forcing himself to pull free and untie MacLeod’s wrists, but after they adjusted their limbs around each other, he allowed himself to be pulled down into the need for rest.

*

An hour later, Methos opened his eyes in the middle of his dream. He’d been on the beach, walking with both Alexa and MacLeod, hand in hand with both, and then he was back in the bedroom. MacLeod snored softly beside him and the alarm clock told him it was just coming up to three.

He got up and got dressed as quietly as he could, including picking up his jacket. He was sure the metal clunk of sword hitting sword within his jacket would wake MacLeod up, but it didn’t. He laced his boots on, grabbed his phone off the charger, and was out the door and into the elevator before making his first call.

“Becky,” he said, voice low even though he was the only awake person in the building. “It’s Adam Pierson.”

“Hello, Adam,” Becky said. She didn’t sound like she was asleep. “You looked good this evening.”

“Where were you?”

“The next rooftop over. It was a close one, wasn’t it? I was almost out of a job.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

He heard her shoulders crack. She must have shrugged. She’d been Kjell’s watcher for almost twenty years. He’d been a bad-ass for most of his life, until he found the real money in internet porn and now was a mogul in the business. He really was a master at knot-work. “Neither of our faults. What can I do for you?”

“I’m calling in a favour.”

She was silent on the phone long enough Methos has thought he’d lost her. Introducing her to one of his fellow researchers wasn’t much of a favour, only they had the exact dry humour and the same taste in stupid, car-chasing American movies. They’d been married for seven years. “It had better be a very small favour. One that won’t need body-bags.”

“Nope, none of that. I just need to speak with Kjell.”

“That may not be such a good idea. Once he was able to pick himself off the ground he hobbled away. I don’t think all the bones have completely healed yet.”

Bones knitting together was so much more painful than skin regenerating, but of course he didn’t say that. “I’ll play nice,” he said. 

“For someone who got what he wanted about upholding the oath, you seem in a mad hurry to break it again.”

“Please, Becky. We both know I could find him myself but we’re running out of time. This message is for his own good, and the good of others.”

“If you’re lying, you’re dead to me,” Becky said.

“I don’t have all that many friends left. If you ever need something, I’m there for you.”

“Well, good. I’m going to need an awesome vacation for our wedding anniversary and I’m thinking beachside hut in Bali.”

“I know someone who knows someone. Just email me the dates.”

“He’s staying at Hotel Lutetia. The rest is up to you. I want to swim with the dolphins if you want this to go off the record.”

“Say hi to Flipper. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

*

The second part of the plan was a bit more complicated. He picked up another rental, but changed it to a burnable license plate. Dirty hands were nothing compared to explaining the procurement charges to the car service. 

At three o’clock in boytown, only the most desperate were out, but he wanted more than desperate. He wanted bright and, as much as possible, loyal.

Lucky number three was a bust, as was four, five and six. But the seventh young man had made a face when Methos asked him “ _Parlez-vous anglais?_ ” He deliberately used _vous_ instead of the more intimate _tu_.

The boy made a face. “ _Mais non_.”

“ _Un petit peu?_ ” Just a little bit?

“Non.”

“ _Très bien. Vien ici._ ” Very good. Come here, darling.

They spoke money, enough money that the young man’s eyes widened. From the light of the car, he was a lot older than the makeup implied. Methos offered him about six months worth of business. Ten percent now, the rest, later.

Methos glanced at the man behind the concierge desk with just practiced contempt. Their hands barely touched, but the hundred dollar US bill Methos had in his hand disappeared. Methos had created a special ap on his smart phone to let him into swipe locks. Methos showed the boy, Henri, how to use it to let himself into the room.

“This is it. This is all you want,” Henri asked, in French.

“No more, no less.”

“And if he wakes up? Struggles?”

“He’ll be very asleep,” Methos said. Healing took effort, and as injured as he was it would take a lot of time to not just knit the bones but unpierce organs. “If he’s awake, tell him someone had called for a turndown service. He doesn’t speak French, so it really doesn’t matter what you say. If he follows you out, I’ll take it from there.”

“I don’t know,” Henri said.

“I’ll double how much I promised you. I may need dozens of small things done for me. Do you want to be my go-to guy?” _l’homme de toutes les situations_ took a bit longer to say, but it made his point. Henri nodded and took the sword.

Henri left the door open. Methos gave him to the count of twenty and followed.

Kjell was pleading with Henri, but in English. He spoke Spanish, Norwegian and Russian, but not French. Methos had checked. “ _Merci beaucoup_ ,” Methos said, and paid Henri the rest of the money. “Program your number into the phone.”

“You’re not going to kill the guy, are you?” Henri asked.

“I don’t want to, but we’ll see.”

Henri finished with the phone, put it down, and skittered out of the room. 

“You were with MacLeod tonight. Are you his lover?” Kjell demanded.

“Do you think that question is at all relevant with what’s at your neck right now?” Methos asked, running the edge of his blade down the exterior jugular. 

Kjell almost choked trying not to swallow. Methos pulled the blade away long enough so that Kjell could cough without slicing his throat open. “Thank you for that,” he said, when he could speak again.

“I’m not a bad man.”

“You’re just here to kill me.”

“You brought it down on yourself. MacLeod had a dark quickening, of which he is still suffering through the aftereffects. What he did while he was under the influence is not his fault and he’s not responsible for it.”

“There are a hundred immortals out there, all gunning for him. You may kill me but you can’t kill them all.”

“I’m probably not going to kill you,” Methos said. “I need you as my messenger. Anyone who is gunning for MacLeod will have to go through me, first.”

“And who do you think you are?” the man sneered. “Why should I listen to you?”

Methos looked at him. He’d had practice over the past month with MacLeod, but he’d always filtered the darkness inside. If he showed all he could be, MacLeod would have not only stopped listening to him but aslo discounted everything he’d said to that point. He didn’t look at Kjell as though he were older and wiser. He looked down at the man as not only the eldest and the wisest, but as one who had taken so much that his victims had no tongues for which to beg for their passing. “I am Methos,” Methos said. “I am death. Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod is mine.”

The sneer, as well as every ounce of colour Kjell ever had, drained out of him until he was as white as his hair. The smell and sound of urine soaking through the sheets filled the room. Methos knew he was sending up a flare beacon, a mile high in the sky, a global bat-signal with his name on it, but he’d twitter his home address if it might protect MacLeod just that much more.

“I’m so sorry,” Kjell whispered. He brought the urine soaked blankets up closer to his neck as though that gave him just a little bit more protection. “I won’t tell anyone about you, I swear. I’ll let people know MacLeod is protected, and off limits. Your secret is safe with me, sir, I swear it on my axe.”

“Good. I think we’re done here, then. Try to get some rest. That was quite the dive you took this evening.”

“I was jumping from the wrong man.”

“I know.” Methos patted the man on his foot. “But you’ll know better the next time.”

“There won’t be a next time. I swear it again on my axe.”

“I know,” Methos repeated. He turned off the bedside lamp, grabbed the axe that was within arm’s reach of the bed. “This will be waiting for you downstairs in the lobby.” He swung it around. “It is a beauty.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

MacLeod closed the door behind him and killed the ap on his phone. It had been a bitch to program and about as close to a sonic screwdriver as they have on the planet, but it was hell on the phone’s battery life.

It was now closer to four than three in the morning, and the city was just now coming back to life. He stopped at a coffee shop across from the dairy. None of the farmhouse lights were on, and security hadn’t started their rounds for the next hour yet. With MacLeod contained, Geoff had relaxed def con 5 to about def con 3, but there was still concern.

“You’re here early,” the lady at the counter said. Her nametag said Heather, but only because her bosses had decided that Nwamaka would be too hard for most people to say. She wore a hairnet to keep her dark hair contained and her skin was flawless. They’d spoken to each other a lot during Methos’ morning coffee break when he worked at the dairy. The brown office water in the break room could hardly be called coffee. “Not that I see you around that much these days.”

“I’ve been working from home a lot.” He ordered a strong black cup of coffee with two extra shots of espresso and a pastry. The chocolate croissant was buttery and the chocolate still warm from the oven. Not hot enough to burn the roof of his mouth, but perfect. He sat at the counter. It gave him a perfect view of the dairy to the right. 

“Are you taking care of yourself these days?” she asked. “You are looking a bit tired.”

“My job description has changed, and we’re under new management.”

She exhaled. “That is always stressful. They can never just leave things alone.” 

Methos glanced to the dairy. The security car was just signaling to pull into the parking lot. The light of the bakery lit up the reflective paint on the logo. 

With her Nigerian accent, her words came out like a song. 

“Can you do me a favour?” he asked.

“Now that depends,” she said. 

“It’s nothing bad. I just need you to call a number if I’m not back here in fifteen minutes or so.”

“That sounds very cloak and dagger.”

Methos shrugged. “Doesn’t it? Cell reception is terrible inside the stone building, and I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend’s parents for breakfast. Just say Adam is stuck at work, and Duncan will understand.”

“Boyfriend,” she said, “That is too bad. But me, I am a married woman myself so what chance would we have had?”

“Some other time, it would have been a very good one,” Methos said. He squeezed her hand. Her eyes told him flat out she didn’t believe his cover story, as charming as it was, but they were very old eyes. She had seen a lot in her time here on earth, and had probably seen a lot more than just a life of making the best pastries in Paris. He didn’t need to tip her a hundred euros over the cost of the coffee and the croissant, but he did.

He kept his car parked in the bakery and ran across the road on foot. He used his own badge to get into the building. If anyone asked, he was just an average researcher who had forgotten a dry-cleaning ticket. That nothing he owned required dry-cleaning was moot.

The stillness inside the farmhouse felt strange. When MacLeod was on his rampage they worked around the clock, but now everything had gone back to a 9-5 job. Still, he went up to his office, fussed about in the drawers for a second or two, and then logged into his computer. Using a proxy in a proxy in a proxy, he hacked into the Paris power-grid and disabled the quarter of the city where they were in. He only set it to be down for five minutes, and just after he pressed return the house went dark.

Like, dark, dark. Even when it was quiet in the house, the servers and the emergency lights hummed in the background. Now, it was completely still. Walking across the second floor caused the ancient wooden joints to creak, but so softly it barely registered. The house hadn’t been that quiet since before he had gas put it. 

When he’d been sitting in the car in the parking lot of the bakery, before Methos had gone for coffee, he’d changed the dates in the emergency generator to September 12, 4013, and the date was so out of range that when the system booted up it immediately failed. All the security systems were based on the emergency system, so he could waltz into Geoff’s office just by pulling on the old door.

When the computer monitor on Geoff’s desk turned itself on, Methos just about jumped out of his socks. He’d been so accustomed to the dark the window start-up screen blinded him. The whole system was hooked up to an uninterrupted power supply battery, but it was so new most of the plug-ins still had protective white plastic covers.

A yellow-sticky was on the edge of the monitor, did its best Alice In Wonderland impression. PLAY ME!!! had three exclamation points and was in all caps. The smiley face below it was new. The passive-aggressive notes from Geoff around the office had become all but invisible to Methos, but this one was elegant in its simplicity.

“Play what?” Methos asked into the darkness. The VLC player must have been added to the start menu, because the next moment it was the only thing against the dew drop on green-leaf background of Windows 7. 

The .avi file in the playlist had today’s date on it. He told himself to get out. The whole set-up had tripped his weirdness alarm. He hadn’t gone through any of Geoff’s things yet. If there was a recording device in the room with its own power supply he could simply say he was going to leave Geoff a note that the power had cut out.

He jumped, for real, when he saw the black outline of a man standing in the otherwise blacked-out doorway. He’d been staring at the screen for too long. When his night-vision came back he saw it was Geoff.

“The power’s out,” Methos said, obviously. “I thought I’d just leave you a note.”

“In my office,” Geoff said, coming into the room. “Just before four a.m. in the morning.”

“I have insomnia,” Methos said. “I’ve been suffering with it for years.”

“You have a pat answer for everything and yet no sense of curiosity.” Geoff was fully in the room now, and Methos, despite the weapons he had pressed against him, felt momentarily trapped.

“You know what it did for the cat,” Methos said. 

“You do seem to have nine lives.”

Methos forced himself to laugh, but it wasn’t funny. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. The sense that Geoff knew -- not that he was Methos, that was a stretch even for Geoff -- but that Methos was an immortal overpowered him. 

He reached into his jacket for his Smith & Wesson at the same moment Geoff pulled out a black handgun himself. “Well, well, well,” Geoff said. “I expected more from you, Adam.”

“It’s not what you think,” Methos said, to cut off Geoff’s _if that is your real name_ , but Geoff didn’t say it. Nor did the word “Adam” have any sarcasm to it. Geoff still thought Adam was his real name. But if that was the case, why were they still pointing double-action semi-automatic weapons at each other? Two more men entered the room, as silent as Methos had been, both carrying high-powered rifles aimed at him. 

“Go on,” Geoff demanded.

“Go on…what?” Methos asked.

“Push play. Doesn’t anyone read the goddamn notes I leave around the office?”

Methos was a good enough shot he knew he could probably fire off enough rounds to kill or seriously wound all three of the mortals before succumbing to his own wounds, and then it was a simple matter of coming to before the power grid came back on. But that wouldn’t tell him what Geoff obviously thought he knew. He backed up to the computer desk. He glanced down, still drawing a bead on Geoff’s heart. The rifles were racked and loaded, but Geoff’s safety was still on. 

He hit CONTROL P, not looking down, but there wasn’t any sound. “Watch,” Geoff said.

The man holding the rifle to Geoff’s left sniggered. His companion was grinning. Even Geoff was staring at the screen. One glance wasn’t going to get Methos shot. He looked down.

It was a thermal camera. It could have been any two people with their core temperature of 98.6 degrees and their exterior temperature a little warmer than usual, but the body positioning and MacLeod’s outstretched arms were unmistakable.

“So?” Methos asked, finally.

“I’m not an expert field watcher, but I believe that’s a bit more than watching and recording,” Geoff said. 

“MacLeod has always demanded a more hands-on approach,” Methos said.

“Hands-on, dick in?” 

“If it makes you feel any better I’d already clocked out for the night.” Without looking, Methos hit CONTROL . and stopped the playback. The continued standoff told Methos he was in for more than just a write-up. “You’ll have my letter of resignation by sundown.”

“I won’t accept it. You’re far more valuable to me as bait,” Geoff said.

Methos had just about had enough. He didn’t know what the rifleman on the left had been looking for, either the way he exhaled exactly half of his lung capacity or the way his grip had changed, but before he could squeeze off a single round, a bullet caught him in the knee.

He got his shot off, but it made more of a thunk than a splat. He’d forgotten about bullet-proof vests. Hollow point or not, the bullet tore through his knee-cap. Fuck, he forgot just how much pain hurt. He went down, clutching the leg, and cursed himself for going for the easy central mass instead of the more difficult head-shot. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck technology.

*

Methos didn’t pass out, though he expected himself to. He remembered every painful step it took for him to be dragged down into the basement. “I wouldn’t use the door lock,” Methos told Geoff as he scanned his eye. The pain was still acute, clearing his mind to crystal thoughts rather than muddying his spinal fluid. “Unless you think you can work the eye-patch.” 

“Do you want to be shot again?” Geoff asked him. 

Methos bit back a scream as the two riflemen carrying him stumbled and slammed him up against the wall of the narrow staircase. “If you keep talking, it would be preferable.”

The cell’s door was already opened. It had been an elaborate trap he’d walked himself into. They dumped him on the ground as though he were his equal weight in garbage, and then the door slammed shut. Methos had to push himself up so that his knee wasn’t touching the dirt floor, though it seemed to take forever to inch his way to the back wall.

The rifle’s round had been big enough that it had destroyed his knee, and having it heal was every bit as painful as actually getting shot. “You’re going to leave me here to bleed to death?” Methos asked.

He hadn’t looked up. He’d heard bootfalls on the stairs and the door slamming as he’d worked his way backwards, but he didn’t think for a second he was actually alone. He was losing his focus, but picked out bits of his jeans from the wound. 

He heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being undone. The leather whispered through beltloops, and Geoff threw it between the bars at him. “Make yourself a tourniquet. If you’re still alive after I get what I want I’ll have you dumped at a clinic.”

“And if you’re still alive after what you get what you want, I’ll thank you for that.” Methos made a loop around his thigh and cut off the circulation as much as he could. The lack of blood would slow the healing, which would be hard to explain.

“What do you mean by that?” Geoff asked, coming inside the yellow line in the dirt to the bars. Sadly, Methos was in no condition to take advantage of the opportunity.

“What do you think I mean by that? Have you read MacLeod’s dossier?”

“You fixed it.”

“Fixed what? The dark quickening? Yes, I suppose I helped him a little, but I’m talking about before 2009.”

“I get it. He was practically a boy scout. That’s not forgiving what he did.”

“We’ll get back to that first part in just a second, but what is it that he did that was so personal to you? I can’t begin to list the felonies you’ve committed this morning, and it’s not even six o’clock. Shooting one of your own agents is an all time agency low. Considering we just got rid of Horton and his like, that’s saying something.”

“I knew Horton. He was a good man. You can’t trust immortals. They’re truly an abomination.”

Immortals. Not them. Geoff didn’t think of Methos as an us against them. He may not have the words yet for his suspicion, but it was only a matter of time before he’d ask to see the wound. Methos tightened the belt more. He could feel himself healing. “Horton was insane.”

“He had a vision. Humans first!”

“And this is your definition of sanity? Does _séquestration illégal_ mean anything to you?”

“MacLeod will come for you.”

“Of course he’ll come for me,” Methos snapped. “And then what? All those times MacLeod practically wasn’t a boy scout? He was protecting those he cared about. If you value your life and limb, you’d let me go this instant and I’ll try to pretend this never happened.”

“That’s not going to happen. I’ve been planning this far too long.”

Methos was quiet. He felt pressure on the back of his skull through the pain. MacLeod was getting closer. If anything MacLeod needed required distraction, he’d do his part. “Why do you hate him so much? Why is it so personal to you?”

“I thought you did your homework.”

“I do,” Methos said. “But I never said I was perfect.”

“Oscar Méille,” Geoff said.

The last watcher MacLeod had killed. He’d been an orphan, no parents, no siblings, just an old grandmother in a home, slowly fading into dementia. “You two were friends,” Methos guessed.

“Not just friends, like brothers. We went to the same boarding school. He came home every holiday.”

“You were close,” Methos said. 

“You think just because you fuck a person you care about them deeper than if you don’t fornicate?” Geoff slammed his fist into the bars. It did nothing but hurt his hand. “I loved him.”

“You sent him into the field where two other people who had been just as loved died,” Methos said, his voice low. “Nine other people had been seriously hurt. He must have understood the risks.”

Geoff went to the cupboard of weapons. Besides all the swords lay MacLeod’s katana. He hadn’t needed to even go into Geoff’s office. He would have needed Geoff’s eye, but that could have been arranged. Geoff ignored it and pulled out an axe. “He didn’t care.”

“You don’t get to choose for others,” Methos said, looking Geoff in the eye, ignoring the axe in his hand. His leg hurt. Part of him just wanted to lay low, keep his head down, and let MacLeod just come get him. There was no other way this would work out. 

And yet part of him was tired of death. Its cold, greasy fingers stained everything around it. “Cutting off parts of me isn’t going to change the fact that we can’t decide what’s best for other people.”

“No.” Geoff said. He slapped the hilt of the axe against his open palm. “But it will make me feel better.”

“You’re not an evil man,” Methos said. He would have backed up even more, but he was right against the wall. He pulled his jeans up, over his kneecap, and unbuckled the belt over his thigh. It had stopped bleeding, but he didn’t know if it would support his weight yet. Still, if a mortal came at him with an axe it wasn’t going to end well. “You don’t know how much effort it takes to get an axe through bone.”

“You sound as though you do.”

Methos didn’t say anything.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Geoff said. He brought the head of the axe against the bars. “I can feel it.”

“My life is an open book,” Methos said. They were journals, really, and sometimes rereading how ignorant he’d been, even when he was over two thousand years old was a drag. 

“You’re going to tell me what I want to know.”

“You don’t even know what questions to ask,” Methos said. “I’m sorry about your friend. He shouldn’t have died. MacLeod was literally beside himself and had no more control over his actions.” MacLeod was closer now. Even through the hum of the electricity, Methos still heard the sound of the ceiling joints groaning. “It was a horrible situation.”

“Thank you, but it’s going to get worse for you. MacLeod cut off Oscar’s hands. He just hadn’t the chance to mail them back.”

“You’re not going to do that,” Methos said.

“Are you going to stop me?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Does your leg still hurt?” Geoff asked, suddenly.

“Yes.”

“A lot?”

“Horribly.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Geoff was putting the square root of -1 and Euler’s Number together and coming up with two. Methos held out his hand, which was covered in blood. “Put down the axe and I can concentrate on how much my leg hurts.”

“Methos,” Geoff said. 

Methos kept his face perfectly straight. “What about him?”

Geoff stared at him. “Where is he?”

“That’s a question you should be asking me in a staff meeting, not in a cell after you blew my knee off.”

Geoff swung the axe at the bars. The sound of metal on metal was incredible, but was quickly muted in the dirt floor and rock walls. Geoff swung again and again. Methos put his arms over his head until the noise stopped. Geoff’s suit jacket had split at both his sleeves, letting the white of his shirt through, and his hair was wild. Sweat ran down his ear. “Where is he?”

“What difference does it make to you? Do you even know if he’s real? I’ve found five people this century who have all claimed to be him.”

Century. Not decade. The word just slipped out. He could blame it on the lack of sleep, the pain, the worry, fear itself, it didn’t matter. Geoff pointed a finger through the bars. “I got you.”

“It’s 2012,” Methos said, scrambling to get his proverbial feet back under him. “We’re twelve years into this century.”

“Who are you?”

“Adam Pierson. Humble researcher.”

“Show me your knee.”

Methos was done, and they both knew it. That didn’t mean he didn’t have any more cards to play. “I can still save your life,” Methos said. “If you let me walk out of here I’ll ask MacLeod to spare you.” If MacLeod could be reasoned with, he thought. If MacLeod was dark now, he’d either leave Methos to his fate or come and get him as any master would reclaim a slave. Either way, figuratively or literally, Methos was fucked. 

Geoff turned his back to unlock the door. Methos tested his knee. It had grown over, but the internal damage was still there. It still hurt, but he didn’t feel it. 

The lights cut out. “What did you do?” Geoff demanded.

“Don’t look at me,” Methos said. Not that either of them could. In the basement, it was absolutely pitch dark. 

“Geoff!” 

The voice came from upstairs. It was one of the riflemen. The terror was clear across the distance. “Is this some sort of trap?” Geoff asked, voice low.

“Of course it’s a trap,” Methos said, and laughed. “This is your very last chance.”

The sound of metal scraping across metal came. The upper cupboard, the one with all the guns, unlocked. “I know. I’ll take it upstairs.”

With a sickening snap, things came together with his knee. Methos climbed to his feet, hesitant to put weight down on what had looked like cat food half an hour ago, but his knee held, as good as the rest of him. He still limped to the bars, holding his breath so he could listen harder, but the only sound after Geoff had chambered the first round was the basement door opening and closing.

A silencer doesn’t completely silence a bullet, but it took it down from a car accident to a balloon popping. Even silenced, the bang was unmistakable. Methos rattled the door, knowing it wasn’t going to give, but he had to do something. 

The hair on the back of his neck stood up, electrically charged. _No. No, no, no,_ it couldn’t be that they’d taken MacLeod’s head. Methos braced himself. He couldn’t stop the quickening if it came, but it was just the overhead light coming back on. The servers’ hum kicked in a second later.

The door opened. Geoff’s blue trousered legs came down first, with MacLeod’s jeans right behind him. It wasn’t until almost the bottom of the steps that Methos saw the broadsword across Geoff’s neck and MacLeod’s hand entwined in Geoff’s fashionably longish hair.

“Are you all right?” MacLeod asked.

“I’m fine. Are you evil?”

“I’d say annoyed.” MacLeod glanced down to Methos’ shredded pant leg. “What happened?”

“Bullet,” Methos said. “I tried to keep it from healing as long as possible, but what can you do?”

“He knows?” MacLeod asked, his hand tightening in Geoff’s hair.

Methos nodded.

MacLeod nodded as well. The hand in Geoff’s hair tightened. “What do you want to do?”

_Kill him_ he wanted to say. That would be the easiest thing. A throat slash, and it would be over. Methos could be the first one into the office, find the body, and fill out the hundred or so pages of incident reports. The police may have to be involved, there would be the oversight committee…it would be complicated, but easy in the long run.

He understood Geoff though. That his friend’s murderer had been an immortal would be like a very young toddler trying to get his parents to do what he wanted. Not only had he no power, he didn’t even have the language skills necessary to really articulate what he needed. Everything was above his head. He was lashing out.

But it would cost Methos more than just his job. Adam Pierson was only a very small part of his true identity, but the role had been his cocoon for years. He didn’t want to leave it for some mortal.

Old MacLeod, pre-darkening, wouldn’t have even asked the question. It wouldn’t have even been a question. Outing Methos as an immortal would have been nothing if it meant a mortal’s life, and now it was down to his choice.

He was so sick of choices. His own moral compass had been broken for thousands of years, spinning around and around, always seeming to come around to what was the easiest way to slip through life, whatever that was, and here he was, having to be Jiminy Cricket.

“It would be so much easier if you could wipe a brain like you can wipe a hard drive,” Methos said. 

“But you can’t,” MacLeod said. “It’s almost seven o’clock. We have go get out of here.”

There were no cameras down in the basement. What happened below grade stayed below grade. “Let me out of here.”

“That’s not an answer,” MacLeod said.

Methos rattled the door, as hard as he could. He almost felt the metal bend against itself. “Just let me out!” 

MacLeod let go of Geoff’s hair. “You heard the man.”

“He’s no man,” Geoff said. 

MacLeod moved the sword, but kept it on Geoff’s shoulder. “You’re not helping your case.”

It must have been hell for Geoff, being inches from an entire arsenal, but the door release was so close he could press it just by walking along the blade. “And back you come,” MacLeod ordered.

The door released on a slight delay. Methos pushed it all the way open and leaned up against it on the side of freedom. The air tasted differently on the outside. 

Methos stepped forward, grabbed the axe leaning against the wall, and took Geoff by the throat. MacLeod let him go so he wouldn’t be split open.

The axe was a terrible weapon, only good for logs, but it did its job when Methos applied it against Geoff’s face. He pressed down, hard enough that it dented the skin but not enough to cut it. “Adam,” MacLeod said, but didn’t move from the foot of the stairs. “If you’re going to kill him, kill him.”

“Right, because we wouldn’t want him to feel any pain,” Methos snarled, more to Geoff than MacLeod. “By every right under your God and man I should hack you to pieces.”

Geoff wouldn’t look at him. Methos’ hand on his throat gave him enough room to breathe, but not much else. Methos leaned against him harder, his thumb so close to Geoff’s mouth that a bubble of spit broke against it. “If you’re going to do it, do it,” he said, his entire body shaking.

If they were alone, Methos honestly didn’t know what he would have done. He brought the axe down, slowly, deep enough that it cut into the skin, but not enough that it did any more than bleed. There were so many nerve endings close to the skin, but if this mortal was going to cost him his safety net by god Geoff was going to remember him.

The noise Geoff made was high-pitched between a screech and a scream, and even though Methos only moved the blade about three inches total down his face, he made it last. The bloodlust was a thirst inside of him, and cutting Geoff didn’t slake it a drop.

 

When he did as much damage as he could, he picked Geoff up, still by the throat, and carried him inside the cage. “You better hope your system has some sort of manual override,” Methos said, and closed the door behind him.

“Who are you?” Geoff asked, hand to his face. It did little to stop the bleeding. 

“That doesn’t matter. Come at me again, and you’ll be sorry you found me. Do you understand?”

Geoff met his eyes and nodded, still holding his face together.

Methos grabbed the katana from the row of swords. “Let’s go.”

“Do you have anything in your desk?” MacLeod asked.

Methos reached the top of the stairs before the first burst of laughter escaped. “No,” he said, between gasps. He didn’t know why he was laughing. He’d kept nothing in the office. As much as the watchers had been a cocoon it had also been precariously placed. 

Dawn had come, softly, to the east. The air was still frigid, and the light was enough to give shape without definition to the farmyard. 

A cab was waiting in the parking lot, engine and lights on. “I’m just going to let him go,” MacLeod said.

“No,” Methos said. His hands wanted to shake, but he kept them shoved down into his pockets. “Take it back to the apartment.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No,” Methos said. “I need…” he had to keep his elbows pressed against his ribcage. When his shoulders started shaking he’d be done for. 

The traffic had picked up. He had to wait for oncoming traffic to subside. Madeleine, his office mate was signaling to pull into the parking lot, and he forced himself to smile and wave as though nothing in the world was wrong. It was a good thing MacLeod hadn’t followed him across the ditch to argue the point. He didn’t want her to see a fistfight.

He bolted across the road, narrowly missing a truck pulling a horse trailer. The driver honked at him, but even three feet from the passenger side of the vehicle it sounded muted.

He knew he probably shouldn’t be driving. The world faded in and out, not of sight, but of mind. He’d called Joe though he knew Joe would be just getting into bed, but by the time he reached the bar, the lights were on and the door was unlocked.

Two bottles were already next to each other. It wasn’t enough. He’d considered going to a twenty-four hour American-style diner that would be open so early and yet still serve alcohol, but couldn’t stand the thought of being looked at. It was ridiculous, but very real.

Joe didn’t speak but to put up the next bottle. Reality fuzzed itself around the edges and his muscles finally relaxed, but it still wasn’t enough. Joe switched to whiskey and the burn in his stomach carried him the last little bit into numbness. “Are you all right?” Joe asked, finally.

“No,” Methos said. 

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Adam Pierson died tonight.”

“Oh.”

Methos’ hand started shaking again. He put the shot glass down, grinding it into the bar, but it still trembled. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?” Joe asked.

“To go back into the game.”

“Darius hid from the game,” Joe said. “Hiding away on holy ground is removing yourself from the game. You merely camouflaged yourself a bit better than most.”

Methos stroked his own neck. He didn’t really feel his mouth or the tips of his fingers, but he felt the muscles and the blood vessels. He felt whole. There would be others out there who would hunt him down, not because of what he said or did but merely because of who he was. 

There had always been immortals just as old as he was. He knew Kronos was still alive, Xhao Ji was dead, Caspian was just too evil to die. It had never felt like an accomplishment to be this old, and now, all of a sudden, it was and he wanted to keep it that way.

“I’m rusty.”

“MacLeod can teach you.”

“He’d love that.”

“Actually, yes. He would.”

“I fucked him.”

“Really?”

“It didn’t even just sort of happened. I went out of my way to fuck him.”

“What ever floats both your boats.”

“It floated all right.” Methos put his elbows on the bar and his head in his hands. He stared at Joe, waiting for condemnation to pass over it, but Joe just yawned. 

“Times have changed, buddy.”

“I don’t want to die.” As drunk as he was, Methos realized he should be having this conversation with MacLeod. He stood up suddenly, the room spun. “I should go home.”

Part of the service was to pick people up and drive them home. It was so late in the morning, Methos didn’t even have to call the after hours number to arrange it. Exhaustion crashed up against the amount of alcohol in his system. It left some things oddly clear and with a constant need to urinate.

He took the elevator up and pounded on the door rather than fuss with the lock that wouldn’t stay still or stop multiplying, even if he closed one eye. He tried closing both of them, but it just disappeared all together.

MacLeod answered the door. Joe had provided him a mickey of rye so he could stay nicely toasted on the drive home without his body healing himself into sobriety, so he took a long gulp before staring down MacLeod. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Methos,” MacLeod said.

“No. I’m death. Death on a horse. Death in a freaking car service. I’ve killed, MacLeod. I’ve killed a lot.”

“I’ve killed more than my share of Englishmen.”

“But you left England standing.”

MacLeod nodded, obviously conceding the point. 

“I can’t keep you on the straight and narrow.”

“I woke up this morning to an empty bed. I could have killed every last--"

Methos put one of his fingers on MacLeod’s lips and one on his own. “Shush,” he said, around it.

“Shush,” MacLeod agreed. His eyes were bright again, but they’d never have that glint to them. 

“I think we should fuck on it,” Methos said. “I think we should fuck and then you should teach me the new fangled bits that are all the rage. I don’t want to die.”

“I can teach you.”

Methos put his hand on MacLeod’s neck. He barely felt anything but the warmth of MacLeod’s skin. He shook his hand out, trying to revive some of the feelings back, and almost punched MacLeod in the nose.

“Maybe you should sleep it off.”

“No,” Methos said, firmly, but he blinked and somehow he was in bed, with the blinds drawn and blankets over him. He didn’t know how it happened, but he blinked again and it was four p.m. He blinked a third time and the room was truly dark. It was almost two. MacLeod was a solid weight beside him. He got up to empty his bladder and get some of the fur off his teeth. He let the tap run, cupped the cold water in his hands and drank his fill. It felt like forever. When he finally turned the water off his hands were frozen.

When he got back to bed, MacLeod was awake. “Do you feel any better?” he asked.

Methos nodded. He’d slept off his hangover, and the water in his stomach had temporarily staved off any hunger pains he might have felt. 

“I don’t need you as my moral compass,” MacLeod said. “I did, and the anger is still inside me, but I am myself again.”

“When did I say that?” Methos asked. He remembered telling Joe, but not MacLeod.

“Today. Around three. And five. And seven.”

“I would have killed Geoff.”

“I wasn’t going to stop you.”

“No. But it still would have been wrong. He’s mortal, and he was hurting.”

“See? It’s working.”

“Those are your morals. Not mine. I needed Adam Pierson. He was a perfect cover.”

“You’ll come up with a new one.”

“Not as good, though. I always knew who was in town and how to avoid them.”

“Not all immortals need to be avoided. Some of them can actually become friends.”

“And how many of those so called friends of yours have you had to kill?” Methos demanded.

MacLeod’s face darkened. “Too many, and some that shouldn’t have died.” The image of Sean Burns hung between them, unspoken. “But that’s no reason to avoid friendship. You can’t make it out there alone.”

“I did.”

“You came out to me.”

“I had no choice.”

“You’ll get the hang of things.”

“I don’t need to be lectured right now.”

“What do you need to be?” MacLeod asked. He’d moved up to his elbows. The blankets were down by his hips. His navel was exposed. They would need to move; he didn’t trust Geoff to remember the taste of fear, but for tonight they were safe.

MacLeod followed his gaze down to his belly. He took Methos’ chin in his rough hand, and then pulled himself up so they could kiss. They hadn’t before. Methos was expecting coarse stubble and rough bites, and got smooth skin and lips. Methos had died his first time before shaving was needed on a daily basis, so he appreciated MacLeod shaving before coming to bed.

He put both his hands around MacLeod’s throat. His years as a doctor told him the names of each muscle group, tendon and artery, but the knowledge remained buried under the fact that they were both alive, right then and right there. The hot skin and the fast pulse was enough that he could ground himself to the bed. If he was a live wire, MacLeod was his conduit. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there drowning in MacLeod’s touch, but when MacLeod took his wrists and guided him back to the pillow it felt like it was enough. He felt drunk again, but without the numbness. “I want to fuck you,” MacLeod announced.

Methos looked up. What little light there was came from through the blinds. It was enough to meet MacLeod’s eyes. “I would like that.” He would more than like that. He was comfortable in his bed, on his back. In the articulate part of his brain that never turned off it would be nice to remain passive for once, to allow consensual acts done to him. 

The more animal part of his brain wanted something even more. He wanted MacLeod to fuck him hard, to pin him down with his weight and to push the pain/pleasure line inside Methos until he couldn’t handle anything more delicate than the feeling of Egyptian cotton on his back. He entwined his wrists together and offered them to MacLeod.

MacLeod took them both with a single hand. The lube was still where Methos had left it on the bedside table. MacLeod reached for it with his other hand, using his teeth to rip it open rather than letting Methos go. 

One finger inside him was good, strong and hard. It curled in the exact right way, pushed up against him in the exact right angle. Two fingers were better. They could push in farther, fuck him longer. He would have closed his eyes, let the grunt he was holding back go and give MacLeod have total access, but his eyes had adjusted to the darkness and having MacLeod staring down at him was worth the trouble of keeping them open.

They weren’t locked that way. Methos could take the time to look down, pick MacLeod’s pectorals from the surrounding darkness. He caught a glimpse of the streetlight outside reflecting off MacLeod’s shoulders. And further down still was the dim view of MacLeod shifting so that he could fuck Methos proper.

Despite the fingers inside him Methos still resisted. For two breaths there was discomfort, but MacLeod grabbed his wrists and pulled him up, aligning their bodies perfectly. He ducked his head, pushing it through Methos’ arms so Methos could hold him. They were so close together he could feel MacLeod’s heartbeat pounding below his chest. 

There would be no way he could manhandle MacLeod into this position; it was MacLeod’s strength alone that drove into him. Methos did what he could to take their combined weight with his thighs and hold on with all his strength. He couldn’t keep his wrists together and still keep his position, not with the feeling of an iron bar deep inside him, fucking him so hard and fast it felt more like a dream than anything bodies could actually do. But that inherently unsatisfactory edge dreams had, that the sex could never be exactly hard or long as it needed to be was gone.

This was real. It had to be. When he bit down on MacLeod’s shoulder he heard a corresponding gasp of pain in his ear. A chuckle followed, so deep down in MacLeod’s chest that Methos felt it against his skin. “You can do that again.”

So Methos did. When MacLeod found the exact right pattern that drove him up and over the space between sex and orgasm he bit down a third time, deep in the muscle of MacLeod’s shoulder. MacLeod jerked, shoving Methos all the way down. Methos felt MacLeod’s nails dig into his back. It drew blood, but only enough that it immediately started to heal. MacLeod must have felt the sparks, deep inside him. He groaned, which turned into a gasp of air, and MacLeod was coming, too. Methos didn’t think his thighs could keep the position for a heartbeat longer. 

He let go, and MacLeod let him. Methos fell back into the pillows with MacLeod still inside. Even after he’d come he was still too sensitive to touch himself. 

MacLeod pulled away, even as Methos tried to grab him to keep him in place. The light from the bathroom blinded him after the near dark bedroom. By the time Methos’ eyes recovered, MacLeod was wiping his chest with a hot towel. 

“I never thanked you,” MacLeod said.

Methos shifted so that the cloth still wouldn’t touch his cock. “You don’t have to.”

“I do.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it?”

He pressed his finger against MacLeod’s mouth for a third time. “Shush,” he repeated.

MacLeod kissed his finger, mopped himself up, and got back in bed. Methos had felt fully saturated in sleep before the sex, but closed his eyes and was gone until the morning.

*

A week later they were in the rear entrance of a skilled nursing facility. It wasn’t as easy as Methos had thought. The ward Oscar’s grandmother lived it was full of other patients lost within their dementias. Each door had a lock and a code on it. Methos had to go so far as to actually apply and be accepted as an orderly in order to get all the right numbers.

The fact that the unit was also under surveillance from the Watchers didn’t complicate matters too much. He’d warned Geoff not to try coming after him, and their active part in trying to screen every visitor who suddenly wanted to visit their great uncle before his time was up hadn’t gone unnoticed. Perhaps another late night chat up close and personal with an axe blade was needed. 

But that was in the future. For right now, he had to get MacLeod, also dressed in scrubs, through from the break room to the fourth ward house. He looked as out of place in the scrubs as he would in a dress, but Methos had told him to try to look as though cleaning up bodily fluids were his career choice for a little over ten dollars an hour and it helped.

He certainly was useful when Methos stopped to help one of the assisted care workers lifting up a heavier gentleman from his chair to his bed. MacLeod had lifted the man single-handedly, against three regulations that Methos knew now existed, but the old man had looked like a doll in MacLeod’s arms. 

The old man’s eyes didn’t focus through the cataracts. He had sat up once in bed. _“Baba, baba,”_ he kept repeating, along with a snatch of a song too soft of Methos to catch.

MacLeod spoke to him softly, in a language Methos couldn’t quite place as anything more than Eastern European. 

“He usually needs meds when he gets like that,” the LPN said. “One of our workers said it was Portugese. It means spit or drool.” 

“It’s Serbian,” MacLeod corrected. “He wants his grandmother. I told him she’s waiting for him.”

“Oh,” she said. She looked down to MacLeod’s nametag, but Methos grabbed him and pushed him out of the room. It was a good forgery, but who really could get the holographic images down exactly right with less than a week’s notice? “We’re needed on the third floor.”

If she said anything else, Methos didn’t hear it.

Mrs. Méille’s room was dark by the time they arrived, even though it was just seven. The light from the hall revealed photos on her dressing table. A young, happy couple, dressed in their eighties best with their eighties hair could be forgiven once Methos remembered they’d died in a car crash in 1987. The young boy with them continued his journey through to adulthood without them. Sometimes he was alone, sometimes with a young man that had to be Geoff. 

The woman woke as soon as the door opened. “Who’s there?” she called. She had cataracts like the old man but this woman’s eyes were completely milky. Her skin was the same shade of white as her sheets and blanket, and the shadow carving lines deep in her cheeks and forehead were the only colour.

“You’re safe,” Methos said, moving to the bed. “No one is going to harm you.”

“I’ve lived my life where that is the first thing one who is about to harm says,” she said. A big red button, attached to the wall on a cord, was in her hand, but her thumb with a yellow, split nail on it didn’t move over it. “Who are you?”

MacLeod’s lips were tight. ‘We knew your grandson,” Methos said, when it became apparent MacLeod wouldn’t say anything. It wasn’t exactly a lie. With the photo by his elbow he vaguely remembered seeing Oscar in the common areas of the farm house.

The old woman ignored what Methos said, and somehow looked exactly at where MacLeod stood. She had to tilt her head back to do it, but could she see they would have been locked gaze. “And you?”

“I knew your grandson,” MacLeod said, finally. “I’m Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod.”

Methos waited for the alarm to go off. The quickest route out was not down but up, to the roof and then over to the roof of the strip mall, to the garbage bins behind the convenience store and then to the car parked down the road. Its doors were unlocked to spare them extra seconds.

Instead, the woman just nodded. “My grandson spoke of you.”

“These hands may have killed him, but I wasn’t myself.”

“Oscar told me you were not yourself.” She touched her cheek, following a wrinkle from the corner of her mouth to the corner of her eye. “I am not myself so often these days. I keep expecting them to come home. I know they are dead, and I am alone, but I wake each morning, expecting to get up, go to work at the factory, dance with Hubert in the living room. Oscar told me the danger he was in. His friend Geoff paints you as a monster.” She sniffed, obviously not thinking much of Geoff. “He only visited me once, to warn me you would be coming. To tell me the danger I was in.”

“You’re not in any danger,” Methos said, too quickly.

“I know. Colette, the wonderful girl, came and told me. Pauline hasn’t been here since you gave her the egg, but I understand. Are you here to give me such a gift?”

“Name it,” MacLeod said. “It’s yours.”

She motioned around her. The room was big enough to have a desk and a chair, and a private bath through the door, but none of them looked as though they’d had much use. “I want nothing from you, except your apology.”

MacLeod came to the bed and dropped down on his knees. “I am truly and deeply sorry for the hurt I caused you.”

She nodded. “No one apologized for the war that took Hubert or the drunk driver that took our son. Thank you.”

MacLeod didn’t say anything. “You’re welcome” would not have fit the situation.

“There is one more thing,” she said. 

“Anything,” MacLeod said.

“They tell me of a device that can read books to me. An iPad? And perhaps a subscription to an audiobook store. I love books, you see, but I can’t see.”

“Consider it done.”

She reached down and patted his hand. “You should go. Geoff sends his goons in on the quarter hour. They don’t even so much as say hello, but poke their heads in without even knocking. It’s indecent.”

“I’ll have that stopped as well,” MacLeod said, pushing to his feet.

She waved him away. “Don’t. That Geoff was always a rat-faced boy. Always getting Oscar in trouble, then laying blame as though it were a blanket. If the goons costs Geoff anything, it would be worth it. Don’t forget now. A lifetime subscription to the audiobook store. I appreciate irony.”

“Done,” MacLeod said. 

The old woman closed her eyes. “You boys have a good life. You appreciate what you have. You never know when it’s going to be gone.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said, together.

Methos heard the door to the ward unlocking. He grabbed MacLeod’s hand, and they were up through the stairwell to the roof. The jump from one building to the next was just far enough to remind him he was still alive, and then they were in the car, booking it for home.

MacLeod put his hand on his knee. Methos stared down at it for a second, glad for the empty residential road in front of him, and pulled it closer to his inner thigh. 

Life was too short not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my northern Alberta high school French... also, Devo is unbelievably amazing and spent three hours reading this out loud to catch all the little bits. Her voice sounded like metal on metal at the end. She called on August 29th to remind me I was posting on the 4th. And two weeks and an extension later, it came 25,000 words over my 5,000 word target. Oops?


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